Saved
by MagickBeing
Summary: Magic had saved him on more than one occasion. In an ironic twist, it had decided to destroy him as well. It was unconquerable, unquenchable, devouring every part of him that resisted. It was a lake during a storm, its waves crashing against him, swallowing him whole & beating him senseless. He felt weak, powerless—mad. / / AU. Eventual Drarry. Contains self-harm & mental illness.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Self-Conclusion is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

&.**Prologue**

x

_We all flirt with the tiniest notion_

_of self-conclusion in one simplified motion,_

_you see, the trick is that you're never supposed to act on it,_

_no matter how unbearable this misery gets._

/ / Self-Conclusion by The Spill Canvas

x

Rain hit the window gently, catching the firelight and breaking the night with small, glittering trails of water. Harry Potter stared out the window with dark eyes, past his reflection, and eyed the grounds of Hogwarts with little interest. His heart was heavy with each breath—he was much too aware of it in his chest, much too aware of its frantic but steady beats. Guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders. He swallowed hard, the corner of his mouth twitching as lightning flashed in the distance.

He had managed to do the impossible.

He had managed to live.

He should be on top of the world right then, careless and happy and alive—but instead, he was overcome with an unexplainable sadness, an emptiness even the lightning could not illuminate. How dare he feel like this? How dare he feel so pathetic and ungrateful when there were hundreds, _thousands _of people who were no longer able to feel anything? He exhaled sharply, his eyes burning, and turned away from the window. He had no right. He had no right to be depressed, wallowing in unexplained self-pity. Voldemort was gone and he was there and he should be happy, dammit. He practically collapsed onto the couch, a pile of tangled limbs and aching muscles. Shifting a bit where he sat, Harry flinched as a piece of firewood cracked. He was so pathetic. So bloody pathetic.

Ever since the start of the semester, Harry had wandered the halls of Hogwarts a shadow of himself. He had heard Hermione and Ron discussing it, one night, when they thought he was asleep up stairs. Hermione had said, in hushed tones, that it was almost as if a part of Harry had died when he had conquered Voldemort. Where had his light gone, his thirst for life? It was a question not meant for his ears and yet it was one of the few things that had broken through his emptiness. He had been completely unable to put his feelings into words before then but what Hermione had said made perfect since. That _was _what he felt like—like a piece of him had been lost, like some important, needed part had died. Hermione had assured both Ron and herself that he simply needed time, that this was an adjustment—any change was an adjustment, no matter how good it was. Harry's entire existence had revolved around Voldemort, whether he had been aware of it or not, and now he was simply off balanced. It would take time, but soon, Harry would be whole again, light and alive.

He knew there had been a time he was happy, especially here, at Hogwarts—but, for the life of him, he couldn't remember that feeling. It was as if his emptiness had swallowed those memories and trying desperately to remember felt very much like cupping water in his hands—short lived and pointless, nearly impossible.

Harry shifted where he sat again, pulling his legs up, onto the couch and near his chest, his back against its arm. He wrapped his arms loosely around his abdomen, fingering the hems of his shirt, looking very much like he felt—like he was trying to hold himself together at the seams, like he was fighting hard not to fall, spin into oblivion and never resurface. He thought of Sirius, of Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Dobby—the list was endless. More than fifty students had fallen that day, along with hundreds of Aurors and Ministry workers, and thousands of pedestrians, people who had done nothing but been at the wrong place at the wrong time. His heart _hurt _and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, taking a slow, shuddering breath.

Their faces flashed across his mind and he felt as if he were going to be sick.

This sadness—it was unconquerable, unquenchable, devouring every part of Harry that tried resisting. It was a lake during a storm, its waves crashing against him, swallowing him whole and beating him senseless. He felt weak, powerless—mad. Harry felt as if his sanity was slipping, falling somewhere dark and he could do nothing but grasp at it, desperately, claw at it and try covering himself with what little he could manage to hold. His eyes were burning again and there was something hard in his throat—unable to push it down, hot tears slipped past his eyelashes and he let out a hard breath, a strangled grasp, and clawed at his sides, his fingers twisting, gripping, pulling what ever they could get a hold of.

_So pathetic._


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Reviews are greatly appreciated; they feed my muse and encourage me to keep at it.. and, if any of you have looked at my track record for finishing stories, well, encouragement is most certainly needed.

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Sabotage Internal is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

**&.Chapter One**

x

_Talk to me like there was no suffering_,

_ like I didn't tumble deeper, just to lose another keeper_,

_ like I was who I used to be._

_ Oh, bear with me. I had to try everything—_

_ Jekyll infiltrate my Hyde._

/ / Sabotage Internal by The Spill Canvas.

x

His classes flew by with an unprecedented speed.

Harry had simply went through the motions, dutifully taking notes and practicing his spell-work, but with very little thought. He absorbed none of what was said to him. Unbeknownst to him, he had walked away from several conversations through out the day, turning abruptly when someone was in mid-sentence. He was a wall, expressionless and empty, and it wasn't until he was in the library late that evening that he blinked out of his stupor, peering through the fog blanketing his mind.

There were several books sprawled across the table in front of him, some of which were open, but upside down, clearly of no apparent use. He furrowed his brow, eying their worn appearance with vague curiosity. He flipped one over, scanning its first few lines but unable to comprehend. What was this—German? Fairly certain that he had never been able to speak German, nor had he ever had a passing interest in the language, Harry tried remembering its purpose. His mind drew a blank and he tried remembering further, tried thinking of class and their lessons—had he even attended lunch or dinner? He couldn't even remember moving from the couch in the common room the night before, his cheeks flushing at the thought. Panic gripped at his heart and he slammed the book shut, pushing it away in a rush. He flinched as it slid off of the table, landing on the floor with a loud _thump!, _its noise interrupting the quiet environment of the library.

He swallowed, looking around.

A student he barely recognized glared at him from a nearby table, and Harry quickly looked away, refusing to meet their eyes or offer an apology. Carefully, he moved to pick up the book, dropping it haphazardly on the table. They were glaring again, but he ignored it, settling back into his chair.

His eyes flicked to the next table, the corner of his mouth twitching when green eyes met gray.

Draco Malfoy offered him a cold smirk and Harry pursed his lips, glaring at the other for good measure. The smirk widened and Harry rolled his eyes. He gave Draco a disgusted look and adverted his eyes, looking back down at the books sprawled across his table. The war had left the wizarding world in shambles. Many had disappeared—many more had died—and everyone had tried picking up the pieces of their lives as quickly as possible. New laws were considered and passed and defenses repaired—everybody's eyes were on the horizon, too strained to celebrate the end of the darkness and the rise of the light. People were concerned, obsessed with the possibility that it was simply a stalemate, not an end, and that another war was on its way. They were frantic to find some sort of preventive measure and turned their eyes onto the children of known or captured Death Eater's. Those children—they had been raised in darkness, had no doubt been fed it their entire lives—they had darkness in their heart and they should be locked up—or better yet, eradicated, given the kiss and sentenced to a self-imprisonment. The Ministry tried placating the public by trying children, teenagers, forcing them to take veritaserum—Draco had been one of the first to volunteer, but the Ministry backed out of the arrangement, deciding that they were unable to prosecute children simply because of their parents crimes. Harry had the sinking feeling that there had been a lot of money involved with that decision, but the Ministry showed no paper trail. Whether Draco, and other Slytherins, were truly innocent or had simply called the Ministry's bluff—Harry would never know.

His skin prickled, the hair on the back of his neck and arms raising, goosebumps covering his skin. He could feel Draco's eyes and he tried to ignore it, scanning a few more of the books he had chosen. There was another one about muggle wars and Harry furrowed his brow, unable to remember grabbing it. Pushing his glasses up with his forefinger, he glanced up; Draco was still staring at him, his expression unreadable. Harry quickly adverted his eyes and began stacking the books that were of no apparent use—which was basically every one he had grabbed. It was then that it happened again—Draco watched, with slight curiosity, as Harry's irritated expression melted into something else. The emptiness was written across his face and when Harry looked up again, dead, blank eyes met Draco's own. Draco narrowed his eyes. Over the years, he had become very aware of Harry's presence, partly out of duty to his family and their cause, and partly out of fascination. Despite the fact that their cause had abruptly ended, Draco found that old habits died hard—when ever Harry was in the same room, Draco found himself watching him, studying him for signs of weakness and, appropriately, pouncing when they spotted. Since the beginning of term, Harry's weaknesses were more apparent than ever. Draco he had seen the emptiness in his heart, witnessed it taking over and blanketing his demeanor. He could see Harry's cracks as plain as day and it gave him a silent thrill. He was ecstatic that a piece of Harry's life was in ruins, too, that someone had managed to take something from him just as he had taken something from so many others.

Harry stood, walking in his direction, and Draco watched intently as he headed toward the stacks.

"The phoenix flies true north," Harry muttered, his voice barely audible as he passed, "and traitors burn."

Draco's eyes darkened and he raised an eyebrow to his back.

"Excuse me, Potter?" he sneered.

The nearest student coughed loudly, glaring, and Draco turned in his seat. He gave the other a pointed look of his own, his mouth twisted into a scowl, and as if suddenly realizing who he was, the student looked away with wide eyes and went to packing his rucksack. Draco shifted again, his eyes flicking back to Harry, who was returning to his previous table, eyes downcast. He sat without a word and Draco stared at him for a long moment, irritation blanketing his chest. He would _not _be ignored by the likes of _him._

And so, Draco pounced.

With a scrape of his chair, Draco stood up and strutted over to Harry's table. He laid his hands flat against the wood, smirking slightly.

"What did you just say, Scar-face?" he asked, his voice low, challenging. Harry refused to meet his eyes, focusing instead on the remaining book, and with a single, languid movement, Draco reached out and closed it, slamming it shut. His hand was flat against the cover, now, and yet Harry simply stared.

"Deaf and mute, Potter?" he sneered.

Finally, Harry's eyes flicked up, meeting Draco's, and Draco was unsurprised at their lifelessness. A thrill of pleasure shot through his body and he clenched his jaw, repeating his question a final time, pausing between each word for emphasis—

"What did you just say?"

Harry blinked, still expressionless, and slipped the book out from under Draco's hand. Draco scowled as Harry moved to stand—he reached out, reflexively, and pushed down on Harry's shoulder, knocking him back into his seat. Harry startled, dropping the book as his eyes flicked to Draco's face.

"What the hell, Malfoy?" he growled, pulling back.

Draco smirked, his hand falling back onto the table.

"I won't be ignored by the likes of _you,_" he said, his disgust apparent in his voice.

Harry furrowed his brow, his mouth twisting into a slight frown. Ignoring him? The last Harry had remembered, Draco had been seated across the aisle—he shook his head.

"You're off your bloody rocker, Malfoy," he muttered, eyes dropping to the table.

Where had his books gone?

"Funny," he continued, eyes flashing as he looked back at the Slytherin, "but what did you do with my books?"

Both of Draco's eyebrows shot up and his smirk widened.

"And I'm off my rocker?" he asked.

Harry rolled his eyes. What ever game Draco was playing at—well, he refused to take the bait.

"What ever, Malfoy," he muttered, pushing his chair back and standing. Draco didn't stop him this time, instead watching with slight amusement as Harry moved, tripping over the book he had dropped. He stared down at it for a long moment, clearly confused, before kneeling down to get it. He could hear Draco snickering behind him and he gritted his teeth. He was _so _not in the mood right then.

He straightened, and started toward the stacks again, tossing over his shoulder, "Just bugger off, ferret."

Draco uttered no reply, his smirk still firmly in place as he watched Harry return the book and wander out of the library. He looked back to the table Harry had been sitting at, pleased to see that the other had left his rucksack—his eyes lit up and he moved forward, dumping outs its contents in a single movement. A piece of wood caught the light and, instinctively, he picked it up, another silent thrill coursing through his body.

Twirling Harry's wand easily in his fingers, Draco's mouth twisted into an easy, dark smile.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Looks like I'm on a roll.. I wonder how long this will last. Probably not long. ): R&R?

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Firm Believer is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

**&.Chapter 2**

X**  
**

_I'm spread so thin_,  
_ I need something to believe in._

_ I used to be a firm believer_  
_ of the greater good.._

/ / Firm Believer by The Spill Canvas.

X

Shortly after Harry left the library, he felt sick; he felt weak in the knees, his stomach flipping with every step, and there were beads of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. Pulling at his shirt collar, Harry steadied himself against the nearby wall, its stone cool to the touch. He let out a slow, shuddering breath and practically collapsed against it, sliding down to the floor, his back against the stone. His chest felt heavy, tight, and it was growing harder for him to breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.

What was _wrong _with him? The hallways were darkening, the torches doing very little to illuminate the stone—Harry couldn't see it through his closed eyes, but he could feel it. He could feel the darkness around him, wrapping itself around his body and tightening, squeezing—he inhaled sharply, unable to exhale. His heart was pounding, quick and frantic, and Harry's eyes opened with a start. He gasped for breath, blood rushing to his head, and after a long, torturous minute, his lungs filled. The air was cool in his chest but it wasn't enough, never enough, and Harry's sadness returned, intertwining with the darkness and closing around his chest. A few minutes later, Harry saw black, completely oblivious as his body hit the floor.

X

Everything was warm.

Too warm.

The sun was bright in the sky and there was a sweltering heat. He pulled at his shirt collar and continued, running up the hill as quickly as he could. He stopped at its peak, his breath catching in his throat; it was beautiful. There were hundreds—no, thousands—of sunflowers, bright gold stretching as far as his eye could see. In the distance, a slow fog rolled in and Harry panicked as it reached the sun. The sky darkened and there was a flash of lightning, red in color, and he fell back, surprised.

He could hear screams in the distance, yells for help, but his body was still, a tightly wound coil that refused to move.

Another flash of red—the lightning split the earth and the sunflowers wilted, their golden petals turning a rusty brown as they fell to the ground. Their stems moved, twisted, slithered against the ground, and a thousand snakes covered the valley, eyes bright red. Harry tried to struggle as they slithered underneath him, over his hands and around his wrists, and the screaming grew louder.

He awoke with a start, sweat pooling against his collarbone as he realized, in a rush, that the screaming was no one's but his own. Pomfrey was on him in an instant.

"Mr. Potter," she called, placing a cool hand against his shoulder. "Calm yourself. It's okay—you're okay."

Harry shook his head, clawing at his sheets. He could see their eyes, feel their slippery scales against his skin—he thrashed, Pomfrey's hand doing little to still him.

"No—no, I'm not—I—"

And then silence.

Harry practically deflated against the bed, his eyes lingering on Pomfrey's wand.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," she said quietly, tucking it back into her vest, "but you must get a hold of yourself."

Harry nodded mutely and his breathing steadied.

She let out a slow sigh and her hand moved to his forehead.

"You're burning up," she muttered, a slight frown marring her features. Her eyes met Harry's. "Another student found you in the hallway—a Hufflepuff, I believe. Tell me, Mr. Potter—how long have you felt ill?"

Harry adverted his eyes, shrugging. His thoughts were clearer, now, but he felt groggy, his eyelids heavy. The better question would be how long _hadn't _he felt ill. He wanted to tell her that, but he found himself unable to speak. Instead, he simply laid there, eyes staring ahead, and he could hear, rather than see, Pomfrey shake her head with a soft _tsk. _He tried remembering how he had gotten there, but it was a blur. He could only see darkness, solid and cold, and his eyes slipped shut. Vial in hand, Pomfrey moved closer to him, studying his face with worried eyes. She knew there had been a change in the boy—many of the professors were worried, but as the Headmistress said, Harry had done a great thing. A dangerous thing, and it had taken a lot out of him. His wounds, like everyone's, would heal in time. Over the course of the war, McGonagall had developed some of Dumbledore's wisdom, and Pomfrey tried desperately to believe her words.

"Mr. Potter," she said quietly, sensing that he was still awake. "I need you to take this."

Green eyes opened and, with a bit of subdued effort, Harry managed himself into a sitting position.

He reached for the vial without thought or word, and Pomfrey carefully passed it to him.

"It'll help you regain your strength," she said quietly, "and help your antibodies fight the virus. It appears you have the flu."

Harry nodded and she reached out to uncork the vial for him. He tossed it back in a single swallow, his nose scrunching up a bit at the taste—a bit similar to rotten pumpkin juice and raspberry tarts—and handed her the empty vial. The small, coherent part of Harry, was pleased to hear that it was simply the flu. Maybe, hopefully, the sadness would disappear with it. With Pomfrey's potions, he would no doubt be better within a few hours. Students rarely missed a full day of classes. Finally, he met Pomfrey's eyes, and gave her a small, barely-there smile.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Pomfrey smiled down at him and reminded him very much of Ron's mum, Molly Weasley. Brown, lifeless eyes flashed in front of him and his heart ached. He looked away and Pomfrey's smile grew sad. Typically, she would send the student on their way with another vial for an hour from then and the very strict instructions to get plenty of bed rest—but she could see the strain behind Harry's eyes and she decided to keep him under careful watch, at least until he was better.

She cleared her throat. McGonagall might be wise, but _she _was the nurse.

"Yes, well, do get some rest, Mr. Potter. You'll be free to go in the morning—provided you're better, of course. I'll bring another vial to you within the hour."

Pomfrey lingered for but a moment longer before turning and retreating to her office, her heart aching for the boy in the bed.

Harry waited until he heard the soft _click _of her door before raising his eyes. He looked around the dimly lit hospital wing, its white sheets reflecting the torchlight, nearly glowing. He appeared to be the only one there—he sighed, half wishing that he had company. He didn't think he would actually manage a conversation with anyone, but they would provide a welcome distraction. People watching was much easier on his heart—and head—than being left to his own devices. As if on cue, he could feel he sadness setting in again and he struggled to breathe against it.

X

Word spread quickly. Apparently, as loyal as Hufflepuffs were, they had an absolutely horrible time keeping their mouths shut. The news reached Hermione and Ron within the hour—Harry Potter, the boy who lived, had been found unconscious in a hall way and was now in the hospital wing. Naturally, they dropped everything—even studying—and rushed to Harry's aide.

"Hurry, Ron," Hermione called, nearing the stairs first.

Ron made a face behind her back.

"It's not like he's going anywhere, 'Mione," he muttered, quiet enough for the other to miss. It wasn't that Ron wasn't concerned—he was, had been since things had ended—but Ron dealt with his concern in a considerably different way. Hermione was all worried eyes and concerned questions. Ron was awkward small talk and strained smiles.

They were in the hospital wing soon enough, Hermione practically shoving the door open, spotting Harry's unruly head of hair with unsurprising ease. It was a stark contrast against the white sheets and Harry looked dreadfully pale, his complexion sunken. She rushed forward, Ron in tow, and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, wanting very much to reach out but resisting.

"Are you okay, Harry?" she asked, her voice a pitch higher than usual. Like Draco, Hermione, too, had seen the emptiness in his heart. She had witnessed his mood swings first hand, watched as he walked away from her, completely unaware, as she was in mid-sentence. She had heard Harry's screams late at night and paid careful attention to the darkening circles under his eyes. She had watched him pick at his food, unable to really eat, and bury himself in his studies in an attempt to placate her and Ron.

"Yeah, mate, what happened?" Ron asked, after catching Hermione's deliberate look in his direction.

Harry was relieved when his friends walked into the hospital wing. The sadness edged away and he had a distraction, something to take his mind off of death and darkness. He imagined he should feel something else, too—happiness, happiness that they were there, alive, and obviously cared about him—but the nothingness throbbed.

"Flu," he replied, his voice just as hoarse as before. Vaguely, he attributed it to his screaming.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said gently, her worry apparent. "I'm so glad someone found you—"

She paused, biting back a shuddering breath, and Ron was quick to cover for her.

"You'll be better in no time, yeah?"

She looked at him and offered a small smile, quickly getting a hold of herself. She had been so worried about Harry for so long—seeing him here, so frail and sick looking—she deliberately turned away from those thoughts. Crying wouldn't do her any good right then and would probably only serve to make both Harry and Ron extremely uncomfortable. Visibly straightening, she turned back to Harry. Withdrawing something from the pocket of her robes, she held out a small bundle and offered him a bright smile.

"We brought you something."

Harry eyed it carefully, unable to tell what it was.

Hermione's eyes flicked from his to the bundle and back.

"Oh, right," she mumbled, her face flushing a bit. Withdrawing her wand, she muttered the enlarging charm and, within a second, she was holding a pile of clothing.

"Pajamas," she explained, setting them on his bed. "Ron got them from your trunk—so don't blame me if they don't match."

He looked to Ron, who offered him a sheepish grin.

"It was too weird touching your stuff," he mumbled, shrugging. "Knickers and all—sorry, mate."

Harry stared at him for a long moment, something hard working its way up his chest and into his throat.

And then he did something that surprised even himself—he laughed.

Ron's face flushed a bit but his grin widened. Hermione's expression almost mirrored Ron's—it was nice to hear Harry laugh. It had been so long, too long, and Hermione half-wished it never stopped. She had watched, heart broken, as the light inside of Harry extinguished to a mere flicker. Occasionally, like right then, it would brighten—but it was only temporary, no matter how Hermione wanted to believe otherwise.

Sensing that he was in a better mood than he had been in days, if not weeks, Ron started talking about the upcoming Quidditch season. Harry listened intently at first, but it wasn't long into the conversation that he became bored, lifeless, and luckily for him, Pomfrey intervened. He was barely aware of her talking to Ron and Hermione—barely aware as his two friends left and Pomfrey handed him another potion. He took it without a word, his actions automatic, and excused himself to change into his clothes. Pomfrey tried explaining what the potion would do, but Harry walked away and into the loo. She frowned a bit at the door, shaking her head, and retired to her office—she would explain the effects tomorrow, when Harry was feeling better.

When Harry returned to his bed, he fluffed his pillow and practically collapsed, the darkness closing in on him in a matter of minutes.

He envisioned sunflowers and snakes.

X

Harry awoke to a soft rustling later that night. He squinted through the darkness—the torchlight was dimmer, now, and his curtains were drawn. They were swaying back and forth, gently at first, and then quicker. Harry watched them, confused, and tried thinking through his grogginess. His eyes adjusted in a matter of seconds and he could see a shadow pass in front of his bed, rattling the curtains as they moved. His entire body tensed. It was sort of ironic, really—Harry had faced Voldemort on more than one occasion—he had wrestled with a Baslik and faced off giant spiders—and yet, right then, the shadow before him seemed a bigger threat. With a slow, even breath, he reached up and pulled the cord to separate the curtains. They sprung back and Harry's eyes darkened when he spotted the perpetrator.

Draco Malfoy stood directly in front of him, arms folded easily over his abdomen, a smirk plastered on his pointed face. In one hand, he twirled his wand slowly, his eyes meeting Harry's. Harry squinted at him, able to make out that head of hair even in this dark, blurred room.

"Morning, Potter," he greeted, his eyebrows darting up for a split second.

Harry wanted very much to throw his pillow at him, tell him to bugger off, and pull the curtains closed again.

Instead, reached for his glasses and sighed, saying, "What the hell do you want, Malfoy?"

Draco's smirk widened and he edged closer.

"Now, now," he muttered, faking concern, "is that any way to talk to the person that found.. this?"

He held the wand still for a moment, letting his words sink in, and then continued to twirl it between his long fingers. Harry stared at him in disbelief, frowning. Did he really think he was that stupid? Harry never left his wand laying about. It was always firmly on his person. It had to be, what with Voldemort lurking around for so many years. He shook his head and gave Draco a bored look.

"Nice try, Malfoy," he muttered, reaching for his wand beneath his pillow. Much to Draco's amusement—and expectations—Harry came up empty handed. His forehead lined with confusion, Harry stared at the space under his pillow for a long moment. He could have _sworn _he had put his wand there earlier—he looked back to Draco, the piece of wood glinting in the light. Since his night terrors had started, Harry had been a very light sleeper. He was fairly certain that there was no way Draco could have weaseled it out from underneath his head. He frowned a bit, swallowing, and focused on Draco's face. Draco was almost smiling at him, but it wasn't a nice sort of smile. It was cool, calculating—twisted, really—and Harry sighed.

"That's what I thought," Draco said, his smile widening. Harry quickly decided he didn't like it when Draco smiled.

Through a clenched jaw, Harry spat out, "What do you want for it?"

Draco cocked his head to the side, his eyebrows raising.

"No," he corrected, clearly taunting. "The question is—what will you _do _for it?"

Harry nearly scowled. He knew Draco. He knew he had no intention of giving him his wand back. He was just baiting him with it, gloating, really, and Harry felt irritation bubbling in his chest. He was more irritated at himself than Draco. He was irritated that he had been so stupid, so bloody stupid, as to leave it somewhere the other could grab it. He expected more of himself—of Draco, he expected nothing less.

"Anything," he finally muttered, giving Draco the reply he knew he wanted.

Draco shook his head, pacing back and forth at the end of his bed. He tapped his jaw casually, pretending to be in thought. His eyes flashed as they met Harry's again.

"That's awfully vague, Potter," he replied, smirking again. Harry would have to do better than that if he wanted it back—and even then, Draco wouldn't return it. Even with Voldemort dead, Harry Potter's wand was a prized possession. He knew men that would kill for it—literally. The shadows traced Harry's face and Draco could see the muscles in his jaw working. He stepped closer, challenging Harry. He really hoped he remembered this moment forever—the moment that _he _had managed to get the upper-hand, the moment that _he _could make Harry feel some of what he felt—defeat. "You're going to have to do better than that."

Harry gave Draco a disgusted look, adverting his eyes. He was at a complete loss for what the other wanted—did he really expect him to beg? Harry let out an audible snort at the thought. Knowing Draco, probably. His irritation increased and then he felt it shift into something more—anger. Complete, irrational anger. His face fell and then his mind was blank.

Draco, too, was aware of the change in Harry. He could see the shift—Harry's shoulders straightened, tensed, and his entire body looked to be on alert. And his face—his face became expressionless, the nothingness taking place of his disgust and irritation. Draco's smirk shifted into a scowl. He was _not _getting out of this one so easily—Draco was going to rub it in his face, dammit. He was going to have his moment.

And then, everything changed.

Suddenly, and with surprising speed, Harry lunged forward, off of the bed. The blankets fell to the floor, unwinding from his body and freeing him as if by magic. Draco stepped back and to the side, automatically raising his wand and shouting a curse—there was a flash of red light, considerably dimmer than it should be, and with a flash, Draco remembered that he was holding Harry's wand, not his own. The _stupefy! m_issed, shooting just past Harry's shoulder. Draco's eyes widened and he stumbled back, nearly knocking over a shelf, and Harry hesitated. Their eyes met and Harry did something rather unexpected. He smiled. It was dark and twisted, much like Draco's own, and then Harry turned, lunging toward the window. Several things rushed through Draco's mind. The first was, of course, a string of obscenities—the second? What the _hell _was Potter doing? At least those windows were enchanted—wait, why is he heading for the window? He watched, almost statuesque, as Harry slammed his fists against the glass, again and again, the noise echoing through the hospital wing. Draco furrowed his brow, eyes widening as the castle's magic visibly wavered. There was a soft flash of blue and a rush of wind, followed by a loud crash—the glass shattered, propelling itself forward, and Draco shielded himself, his eyes on Harry again. Harry stepped back and suddenly, Draco realized what he was going to do.

He was going to jump.

In retrospect, Draco would wonder what was going through his mind at that exact moment—but right then, he had no time for coherent thought, only instinct. He rushed forward, narrowly grabbing Harry's shirt and pulling him back. Harry stumbled and then Draco secured his arms around his waist as he tried making another lunge forward. He could see Harry's hands, now—the glass had embedded itself into his skin, and blood dripped to the floor. Draco grimaced, nearly letting go. He had never been particularly fond of the sight of blood—he enjoyed mental torture much more than physical. It was more challenging and therefore, more rewarding—and less messy. Usually.

Harry thrashed in his arms and, with a surprising amount of effort, Draco managed to wrestle Harry back.

"Potter—Potter, stop!" he growled, his face against the side of Harry's neck.

If anything, Harry's struggling increased. He pushed back against Draco, digging his fingers into his arms, and Draco could feel pieces of glass digging into his skin as Harry pushed and clawed. He put his weight into it and then they were both on the floor. Draco could feel bigger shards dig into his shoulder and back—he groaned, careful to keep his grip tight, and pushed past the pain as Harry continued to thrash. They pushed and shoved at each other and, at one point, Draco was fairly certain Harry had tried biting him—but then, it ended as quickly as it had begun.

Harry practically deflated in his arms, and Draco was too aware of his own breathing, loud and ragged.

There were hard sobs, then, choked and desperate, and Harry pushed himself closer, burying his face in Draco's shoulder. Draco's grip loosened and he simply held still, dumbfounded, his arms going limp against his sides.

Harry clung to him for dear life.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thanks to those of you that reviewed—your encouragement is appreciated and much, _much _needed. Once I had a bit of encouragement and input, this chapter became so much easier to write. So please, if you read it, review it. Thanks!

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. The Truth is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

**&.Chapter 3**

X

_There's a part in everyday,_

_where I lie to myself and say that it's okay.  
'cause if I don't I think I'll go insane._

_But the truth is, I only have myself to blame. _

/ / The Truth by The Spill Canvas.

X

When Harry awoke the next morning, he was aware of two things—he would never, _ever _be a morning person, and, his entire body ached.

He squinted up at the ceiling, blinking away his grogginess. He recognized the white curtains of the hospital wing almost instantly—stretching a bit, he winced, wondering why Pomfrey's potions weren't working. He was too warm, unpleasantly so, and his hands and arms ached. He shifted and reached out, past the curtains, and for his glasses. Putting them on, everything came into focus and the curtains sprung open. He startled, meeting the blood-shot eyes of Pomfrey.

"Err, 'morning?"

Pomfrey said nothing and instead stepped back. Harry's eyes moved past her and to Professor McGonagall. The bed beside his had been replaced with two wooden chairs. Professor McGonagall inhabited one and Pomfrey collapsed into the other. Harry tried shrugging off his grogginess and sat up, eyes flicking from one person to the other and back.

"Mr. Potter, I do believe we need to talk," said Professor McGonagall. She leaned forward, her eyes dark. There were lines around her eyes and her skin was slightly darker, sunken, amplified by the thin rims of her glasses. She looked much older, then, tired, and there was a touch of concern in her voice. Harry eyed her carefully, curious, a knot forming in his stomach.

"Okay," he said quietly, not quite meeting her eyes. His stomach flipped and panic gripped his heart, hot and cold at the same time. Professor McGonagall was tense, too tense, and Pomfrey kept shifting beside her. Something had happened—he could feel it and the dread was building, intertwining itself around the panic and working its way up his throat. He looked down at his lap and at his hands. They were blotchy, spots of white covering his hands, wrists and forearms—he rubbed them absently, his words rough, choked. "What about?"

Professor McGonagall exhaled slowly, deliberately, and her voice was gentle.

"How have you been feeling lately, Harry?"

The use of his given name made his eyes flick up and he met her worried gaze with one of his own.

He thought carefully. The way she was looking at him—it was clear she wasn't inquiring about his bout of flu. He didn't want her to be worried about him, or worse yet, pity him. He had grown to despise pity. Pity lead to people getting hurt. People got too caught up, too protective and concerned, and then, people died. Harry didn't want anyone's pity and, unfortunately, he had been getting it in abundance since he had conquered Voldemort. He had half-hoped that he would fall out of the spot light, that people would thank him and rebuild their lives without interfering with his, but he wasn't that fortunate. The Daily Prophet ran weekly, if not daily, articles on him—what would he do now? Where would he go? Would he continue to defend people and become an Auror? Would he become power hungry and become the next Dark Lord? Did he feel useless, now that he had fulfilled his purpose? The questions were never-ending and Harry hated them.

He decided on a half-truth, hoping that it would placate Professor McGonagall and she would get to the point, his dread gripping his heart.

"Tired," he replied, his hands stilling.

Professor McGonagall nodded and her mouth was a thin line.

Harry looked away again.

"Have you felt anything else, Harry? Sad, angry?"

Harry swallowed, his eyebrows puckering ever-so-slightly. Out if his peripheral, he could see Pomfrey twisting a piece of her robes, wringing it in concern. He tensed, and before he could think of a lie, Professor McGonagall continued.

"We need to talk about what happened last night."

Harry glanced at her, searching her face. Here it was, then—maybe it was Ron or Hermione. Maybe something had happened. Maybe the rumors had been true; maybe he hadn't won, maybe Voldemort had survived, again, and had sought vengeance on his friends, those he loved and cherished. He licked his lips.

"Okay," he said with a shuddering breath. His words came out in a rush, his fear obvious. "Please, just tell me—is it Hermione? Ron? His family?"

Professor McGonagall visibly straightened, her eyebrows shooting up.

"No, no," she assured, too quickly for Harry's liking. She paused, her eyes surveying his face, and she pursed her lips. Before she could speak, Pomfrey did, her voice unusually quiet.

"Tell me, Harry," she said gently, startling Harry with the use of his given name—why was everyone acting like this? He looked at her, unable to feel the relief that should be accompanied with Professor McGonagall's reply. Naturally, Pomfrey had always been a bit of a mother figure to Harry, and other students. She tended to their wounds when they were hurt, or ill, and she had a sort of strict gentleness about her that mothers often carried—or so Harry had assumed when observing Mrs. Weasley or Granger—but looking at her right then, Harry could see none of the strictness. She had always been a take charge sort of woman, especially in the Hospital Wing, but she seemed resigned, tired and worn, just like Professor McGonagall. "Do you remember what happened last night, with Mr. Malfoy?"

Harry pulled a face, eyebrows raised, and shook his head. What on _earth _was she talking about? What did _he _have to do with _anything? _

"Oh, oh dear," Pomfrey replied, the words more of a sigh than anything else. She shared a look with Professor McGonagall that Harry didn't like—it was the sort of look that parents gave each other in front of misbehaving children, children who had been caught playing in the street or something of the sort. It was reprimanding and worried at the same time.

Harry's dread was turning into exasperation and he bit out, "Will someone _please _just tell me what's going on?"

Professor McGonagall looked at him first—Pomfrey wouldn't quite meet his eyes and her lips were pursed, trembling, and Harry quickly looked away, focusing instead on the Headmistress.

"It appears," she started, her mouth twisted into a slight frown, "that you tried committing suicide last night."

Of all the things that Harry had expected to come out of her mouth—well, that was most certainly not on the list. He audibly scoffed. Dread and panic were quickly replaced with something else. Disbelief. He would _definitely _remember trying _that—_a dozen things rushed through his mind at once. He thought of his sadness, his anger, his guilt pulling at his heart. He thought of the last few weeks where there were hours, even days, that he couldn't remember—he thought of the distant look in Hermione and Ron's eyes, the hushed tones, whispers and secrets when they thought he wasn't looking—he thought of last night and tried hard, so hard, to remember something, anything, that would reinforce his disbelief and prove that she was lying, making up stories for Merlin knew what.

"No," he muttered, shaking his head, his disbelief darkening as he grasped, _scrounged, _for his memory, unable to remember anything after Hermione and Ron visited. He peered into his memory but there was nothing but darkness, and his voice was much too hoarse for his liking, too rough and pathetic—always pathetic. "No. I didn't—I couldn't—I mean, I don't—I—"

Professor McGonagall exhaled slowly, swallowing, her frown apparent. A piece of her was breaking, then—she could practically see Harry grasping for a life line then, something, anything to hold him up and keep him sane. What ever the boy was going through, she hoped that he could push through it. He had had a hard life, much harder than many thought, and he had survived more trials than many credited him with. The fact that he didn't remember his obvious suicide attempt—it worried her more than she wanted to let on. She needed to be strong, then, for Harry.

Harry stopped trying to form a coherent sentence and instead settled with, "How?"

He was looking down at his lap again, his eyes burning uncomfortably. He felt so _pathetic. _If what she was saying was true, then shouldn't he want to die? Shouldn't he feel differently than he did right then? He felt sad, yes, frequently and frighteningly so, and sometimes it was outweighed by guilt or anger—but he didn't want to die. Harry tried reflecting on that thought. Was he unwilling to admit it because too many had died for him, because too many had died in his fight? No. It wasn't his fight. He didn't chose it—it was theirs, and he was a pawn, and he owed them _nothing. _Not anymore. There was a darkness crawling up his throat, then, and the nothingness was tearing at his mind. There was something inside of him, something that was pushing him down, further and further into that abyss, saying, _if only you had succeeded. _

"How doesn't matter," Professor McGonagall said, quickly dismissing the question. "What's important is that Draco Malfoy was able to stop you."

Harry's eyes flashed. There was a flicker within the darkness and he looked up, only briefly.

"Maybe he staged it—maybe he—"

"Harry," Professor McGonagall interrupted, "don't. You need to confront these demons. Now—there are several things that need to be done to ensure that you're no longer a threat to yourself or others, and to properly diagnose your condition—"

She continued talking, but Harry had stopped listening. Draco had been there—Draco _had _to have done something. He must have cursed him, put him under some sort of spell. Okay, so that was a bit farfetched. The only curse Harry could think of that would give Draco that sort of power was the unforgivable, which Harry had resisted in the past. Coupled with a well placed obliviate, however, or some other sort of memory altering charm, or maybe he was just lying, bloody lying, and—there was that small voice, again, laughing, and Harry's sadness and desperation were closing in.

"Harry?"

His eyes flicked up to meet Pomfrey's.

"I'm going to need you to face me," she said quietly. She was standing now, wand ready. Harry was on auto-pilot again, but more aware of it than before. He was somewhere else, outside of his body. He was a passerby, a simple witness, and he shrugged himself out of the blankets. He felt as if he were falling, spinning in dizzying designs, dropping at tremendous speeds with no sign of stopping. He sat on the edge of the bed. His feet were planted firmly on the floor but did little to ease his vertigo. He wanted to object. He wanted to tell her to put her wand away, that she had no right—didn't they need permission for what ever they were about to do? He was grasping at straws again, trying to think of something, anything, to drown out that voice and steady his footing.

Pomfrey straightened in front of him, her hands absently smoothing her robes. When her eyes met his, Harry quickly looked away—there was a slight line between her eyes, her brow wrinkled with concern, and her mouth was twisted into a slight frown. Her gaze was worried, rightfully so, and Harry was desperate to avoid it. He focused on a scuff mark on the floor, tracing it again and again with his eyes. Past his eyelashes, he could see Pomfrey raising her wand. She muttered something he didn't hear, and didn't care to, and slid her wand across the width of his head. She repeated the incantation and made a few more movements—Harry's eyes slipped shut and the darkness lurched.

When she was done, she nodded curtly to Professor McGonagall, and the two excused themselves.

Harry couldn't hear anything from Pomfrey's office, but he imagined the sound of their voices, their hushed tones and worried looks. He imagined all of the horrible things that could be wrong with him—he imagined the white walls of muggle mental hospitals portrayed on the telly. He imagined the straight jackets and the screaming. His eyes opened and he swallowed, hard.

He seriously considered fleeing.

If he could just go away—run away—then this would be but a memory and it didn't have to be real and he could go on as he was, sad, but Harry. Sad, but sane.

He heard the office door open and his entire body tensed. Very deliberately, Harry looked down at the floor again, refusing to meet their eyes.

McGonagall cleared her throat, folding her hands in front of her.

It was Pomfrey that spoke.

"Your results are.. interesting," she said delicately, her voice rough. It sounded as if she had been crying again—Harry set his jaw. "It appears that your magic is interfering, but there are certain things we can conclude."

Harry could see her shift and he focused harder on the scuff mark. If he just kept telling himself that this wasn't happening, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe he would wake up and be in his dormitories and this would all be some horrible dream, like the sunflowers and the snakes.

"I don't know how to tell you this, Harry," Professor McGonagall said, her voice soft. A long pause, and then, "But it appears you have schizophrenia."

And Harry's eyes met hers.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Again, thanks to those of you that reviewed. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint! It's not as brilliant as I'd like it to be, but I think it does some much needed explaining. The next one should move along a bit quicker. Hopefully.

Oh, and if you're just finding this story, _please _review! Any sort of feedback is appreciated! It assures me that I do, in fact, have an audience and I'm not just talking to myself over here.

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. To Live Without It is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

**&.Chapter 4**

X

_Denial feels so good._

_We don't have a problem at all._

_Oh, denial feels so good,  
I'll even help you put up your wall._

_And I'll applaud you as you fall. _

/ / To Lie Without It by The Spill Canvas.

X

The word came out a strangled gasp, wedging itself somewhere in his throat.

"Wh—what?"

No. This wasn't happening. Harry had expected them to come in and tell him he was depressed, clinically so. That would have been horrible in itself, but it was at least expected, believable. This—this was _wrong. _It had to be. Schizophrenic? He remembered something on the telly—a woman with unseen friends, voices in her head, and delusions—no. He'd know if he was schizophrenic, wouldn't he? There would be proof. More proof than this, simple words and a bloody test.

Professor McGonagall's eyes were sad.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said gently, sincerity ringing in her voice. "I know that it may be hard to understand, or accept, but—"

"No," he interrupted, shaking his head. "You're lying."

He couldn't think anything but _this isn't happening_. Harry could feel the floor lurching again, his world flipping upside down and spinning horribly out of control. Things weren't supposed to be like this. He had won. He had done the impossible, conquered Voldemort and shone his light where only darkness existed. He had fulfilled his destiny, his purpose, like heroes were required to do, so where was his happy ending? Heroes were supposed to have one, right? He was supposed to be happy, now, with a long life ahead of him—he was supposed to be happy, dammit. Not mad. Not bloody bonkers, falling off of his rocker at an unprecedented speed.

Professor McGonagall frowned—she could see him breaking further, falling a part in front of her, and her heartache throbbed. This wasn't right, or fair, but it was what it was, and the sooner Harry could try to accept it, the better off he would be. He may never believe it, she knew—his delusions may interfere with that, but he could at least accept the diagnosis itself.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. She was at a loss of what to say—she knew she needed to be strong, both as the Headmistress and someone who had come to care about Harry over the years, and she knew that an apology meant nothing. It changed nothing and offered little comfort. "There will be a registered Psychiatrist coming to visit you and confirm our diagnosis, of course. He will also speak to you about your options—what you should do next, treatments available, and how best to proceed."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head again. He was no longer a simple observer—he was there, really there, and it _hurt. _There was a strange mixture of disbelief, panic, anger and sadness, all twisted into one, throbbing and building and choking him, and it _hurt. _His hands fell to the bed, his fingers twisting and pulling at the blanket, an automatic release.

Professor McGonagall studied him for a long moment before adding, carefully, "They will also need to evaluate if you're a danger to yourself, or others. Until they arrive, you will be kept under constant supervision."

Harry's head drooped and he kicked at the floor with the toe of his foot, hard, scraping skin against the stone. He thought of Draco, the Death Eater, the liar, and opened his eyes, gritting his teeth.

"He's lying. I didn't try—I didn't—" he paused, finally meeting Professor McGonagall's eyes with his own, "I couldn't kill myself."

_Because I'm too much of a coward. _The sentence finished itself, silent and unsaid, and Harry felt unbelievably weak.

Professor McGonagall shook her head.

"No, Harry. He isn't lying."

She gave Pomfrey a pointed look, who before had simply been standing there, observing, and trying very hard not to honor the burning behind her eyes. At Professor McGonagall's look, Pomfrey stepped forward a bit, straightening, and tried very hard to meet Harry's eyes. Like Professor McGonagall, Pomfrey was very aware of Harry's cracks. They were surfacing, written across his face and body, and a part of her broke for him. This wasn't fair. Although often from a distance, she had seen him go through so much—she had tended to his physical wounds and hoped that the love around him would be enough to heal his mental ones, to keep him sane.

"I found you two last night," she started, Harry deliberately looking past her. "When I came in, you had lost a lot of blood."

She glanced at Professor McGonagall, who gave her a slight nod, and then continued.

"You tried jumping. Mr. Malfoy, who was injured in the process, had enough sense to stop you."

The memory flashed before her eyes. Draco and Harry, tangled together on the floor. Sobbing. Horrible, heart-wrenching sobbing. Pieces of glass scattered about, glistening in the moonlight and shining with blood as the night air rushed in. The air had been electric, the buzz of magic apparent, and her first thought had not been about the two boys laying on the floor. Instead, it had been about the wards, the castle, the sheer power that had broken through—she cleared her throat, blinking away the memory.

Harry simply stared.

None of this made sense. None of it—especially _that. _Why would Draco save him? Why was he even here? Why couldn't he remember? He had so many questions, but what came out of his mouth was, "He tried pushing me?"

It was supposed to be a statement—an accusation—not a question, but it came out too soft, too uncertain.

"At my suggestion," Professor McGonagall answered, "Mr. Malfoy volunteered to use a pensieve and, if you insist on pursuing matters, take veritaserum. If you need more proof than that, and our word, Harry, look at yourself."

Automatically, Harry glanced down. His eyes caught on his hands, tracing the spots of white with careful thought. He could see their lines, tiny, barely-visible threads of pink, scratches and cuts running across the surface of his skin and up to his arms. His hands continued to pull at the blanket, a dull, throbbing ache with each tug. He frowned.

"You had lost a lot of blood," Pomfrey repeated. "Too much for my treatment to work as intended—the scars, they should vanish, but it will take more time than usual for your body to heal."

Again, Harry was overwhelmed with the desire to speak, but his throat was tight and his mouth parched. He had no words left—no argument—and he eyed his skin with a strange sort of wonder. He had done this to himself. He had willingly done this—he tried imagining it, tried forcing the memory, feeling the shards of glass and the blood on his skin, but he felt nothing. His disbelief was waning, giving into the feeling, and he barely registered Professor McGonagall's voice.

"I've already received word that St. Mungo's will be sending over a Mr. Muller yet today; until then, you're to remain in the hospital wing under Pomfrey's care. We will, of course, be keeping this matter as confidential as possible—but, is there anyone you'd like me to notify? Mr. Weasely and Miss Granger, perhaps?"

Harry's hands had stilled and his breathing was even, automatic. He managed a shrug, his eyes still on his skin, and then there were more words, more incoherent speech, and the soft click of the door. Pomfrey offered him a two potions and an explanation, but like yesterday, Harry downed them without complaint, time slipping away.

X

It wasn't long before what ever Pomfrey had given him started to take effect. The nothingness melted into something else—vague, bare consciousness. He was aware and coherent, but numb. He was rational and alive and that was it. He watched, without real thought, as she bustled about the hospital wing. She had tried making conversation, but there had been little to say; Ron and Hermione had been notified, but were unable to visit until Harry met with the Psychiatrist, Professor McGonagall was securing him a more private room so that he wasn't on display in the hospital wing, and Mr. Muller would be arriving in but an hour. She had tried getting him to lay down again, but he had refused, his body stiff, but content, on the edge of the bed.

Behind him, the door opened, and Pomfrey greeted their guest.

"Mr. Malfoy—is there something I can help you with?"

Her words were strained, protective, and she stepped to shield Harry from view.

Finally, Harry stirred, shifting where he sat to crane his neck and look at the boy in question.

"You can bloody fix this," Draco replied, his voice hard, but with a bit of an edge. "Your potions aren't working."

Harry frowned, absently scratching at his arm and shifting more so that he could see around Pomfrey. He didn't know what he expected. Had he really expected to see something different than the prideful, arrogant prat in front of him? Had he expected his heart to warm at what Draco supposedly did for him? Had he expected a look, a question asked and answered, a silent truce? What ever his thoughts had been, Draco simply peered back at him, meeting his curious gaze with a steely one of his own. Pomfrey shifted, breaking their gaze, and Draco turned his attention back to the nurse.

"What do you mean it's not working, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco exhaled sharply, exasperated, and then there was the slight rustle of clothing.

"Oh, oh my," she muttered, moving closer to him.

Harry tried shifting more to peer past her, but what ever had happened had passed and then Draco was being escorted to one of the beds. He was limping a bit and, if Harry were more aware, he may have rolled his eyes at Draco's charades. Pomfrey deliberately seated him in the bed beside Harry's, muttering something to him that Harry couldn't quite hear, though he strained to, and then she was moving away and into her office.

Harry turned, facing Draco, who was offering him a bit of a smirk.

There were few things Draco regretted.

He thought it a pointless process; why dwell on the past when it was unlikely to change? Perhaps surprisingly, saving Harry from himself fell into that category. He refused to regret it—he couldn't, really. There was something wonderful and delicious about knowing Harry had fallen from his pedestal. It was intoxicating, seeing Harry as the broken hero who, after slipping past death a multitude of times, _wanted_ to die. Almost addicting, really, that thrill of pleasure coursing through his veins when ever he thought of Harry, broken and defeated and _alive, _forced to live with it—just like he was.

"Apparently you need a baby sitter," he sneered, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Poor little Potter, too mental to care for himself."

His voice was taunting, challenging, but Harry was past baiting right then. He studied Draco silently, his eyes sweeping across his face and body—what potion wasn't working? Draco didn't _seem _injured, and he wasn't acting any differently—just himself, a pompous, whining git.

Draco tensed a bit under Harry's gaze and he clenched his jaw, his mouth turning into a scowl. Who was _Potter _to look at him like that—as if _he_ were the one that was frail, sick, and _mad, _hurling himself from windows and such? Harry's eyes met his again and he smiled a bit, sensing the change in his counterpart. A bit of amusement worked its way into his mind but disappeared as quickly as it came, his words empty but there as he said, "Uncomfortable under the light, Malfoy?"

His smile was gone and the muscle in Draco's jaw tightened. He cocked an eyebrow ever-so-slightly. _Who does Potter think he is? _he thought, determined to remind Harry of his place. He was the broken one, not Draco, and he would do best to remember that. "If anyone is under the light, Potter," Draco drawled, "it's you; you're the one about to be dissected and experimented, treated as the freak you are."

Their eyes locked again and Harry knew he should feel something. There was truth in Draco's words and he knew he should be afraid of that possibility, shy away from it, frightened, sad and angry. But Harry was no stranger to unwanted attention and criticism. He had been on the receiving line of that for so many years—Draco thought of him as the golden boy, the chosen one incapable of wrong-doings, immune to rumors or criticism. Draco hated him, partly because of that belief, and Harry knew it. Maybe it was a side effect of the potions Pomfrey had fed him, but right then, Harry was incapable of caring. He was incapable of fear, because fear would mean he cared enough to be afraid.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy every minute of it," Harry replied finally, simply, his voice flat.

Harry was the first to break their gaze and Draco could practically growl. He narrowed his eyes and studied Harry with a strange sort of curiosity, a sort of automatic wonder in his eyes. Harry's flippant attitude was annoying him. He was stealing Draco's thunder again, resisting the bait, and it irritated him. He didn't know what to make of it, really. He had always had a way of getting under Harry's skin and he _enjoyed _that. But this, this man sitting in front of him—it was almost as if Harry were a shadow of himself, then, caught in between who he used to be and who the emptiness had forced him to become. There was little emotion, but it was there, vague_,_ bare consciousness in place of the emptiness and it made Draco's temper flare.

Harry's eyes returned to his and Draco smirked again.

"Thank you," he sneered. "Thank you for letting me save you—it'll be much more enjoyable to see you drag it out."

There was more truth than sarcasm and Harry eyed him quietly for a long moment. That answered that, then. If Draco really did save him, if he really had tried jumping, Draco had done it for his own masochistic purposes. Unsurprising, really. That almost made it believable—almost.

Harry shrugged, emotionless, and said, "So glad I could do you a favor, Malfoy."

Draco scowled again but Harry didn't particularly care about his reaction.

He eyed Draco carefully, simply, and spoke without really thinking.

"So. How about doing me one—do you have the Dark Mark?"

Another side effect, apparently. A loose tongue.

It was something Harry had wondered, before, but never considered asking. He wanted an answer, of course, but he knew before the words even left his mouth that he wouldn't be getting one. Both of Draco's eyebrows shot up and a moment passed in thought. Harry had managed to do something unlikely—surprise him. He stared him expectantly, as if he thought he would really answer, and Draco's scowl shifted into a smirk, cool and taunting.

"Do you cut yourself and cry about how horrible your life is?"

Non-pulsed, Harry pressed, "Did you really worship Voldemort?"

Draco nearly flinched at his name. Nearly. With careful concentration, he kept his face expressionless and heartbeat level. Before he could bite back another scathing remark, Pomfrey re-entered the room and Harry looked away. She was on him within a matter of seconds, blocking Harry from his view and instructing him to peel off his cloak. He did so, almost hesitantly, his eyes flicking past her to watch for Harry's curious gaze. She asked him to lift up his shirt and, again, he did so, finally catching Harry's eye as the other leaned to see around her.

Pomfrey pushed his shirt up a bit more, revealing a bit of shoulder without having him withdraw his arm from its cover, and Harry scrunched up his nose.

There, running along the length of Draco's side and twisting up his shoulder, were a series of bright red splotches, scabs that had been broken and were bleeding. They were similar to Harry's own wounds, but more apparent, fresh. Draco was staring at him and Harry was careful not to meet his eyes, settling back on his bed and out of his view.

Draco smirked, his eyes meeting Pomfrey's as the nurse touched his wounds with delicate precision. He deliberately flinched, biting out, "Watch it, will you?"

She ignored him, frowning, and prodded one of the incisions again.

"Something's interfering with the serum," she muttered, bringing her eyes to his. She withdrew from him and reached into her cloak. "I want you to take this until I can find a more permanent solution."

She handed him a light green vial and Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Shouldn't you _know_ these sort of things already?" he sneered, taking it from her with a bit of disgust. "You _are_ the bleeding nurse."

Pomfrey gave him the sort of look a mother gave a misbehaving child.

"I suggest taking it, Mr. Malfoy," she said briefly, puckering her lips into her own, small version of a scowl, "before I start treating your attitude, as well."

Draco smoothed his shirt, pulling it over his abdomen again, and scowled. He was unafraid of what ever Pomfrey was trying to imply, but downed the potion nonetheless. She gave him an approving look and said, "Now, make yourself comfortable, Mr. Malfoy. I should have a remedy within the hour."

Draco seriously doubted that.

Incompetent witch.

He shifted, however, leaning his aching body back against the pillows as she turned to Harry.

"As for you, Mr. Potter," she said gently, careful to use his surname in front of another student, "the Headmistress will be here to collect you shortly."

Harry nodded, his heart skipping a beat. This was it, then—Mr. Muller was on his way and Harry was to be sentenced as the lunatic he was. The thought was biting but empty, barely scratching his consciousness, and Pomfrey stepped away, hesitating. She looked at both boys, her eyes gentle but voice hard.

"Do behave, won't you, boys?"

Harry shrugged, looking over at Draco—he was smiling a bit, but it was dark and twisted, and Harry felt an unexplained flare of déjà vu.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: **This chapter was surprisingly easy to write, and again, I apologize that the first half is a bit slow—but, hopefully the end more than made up for it. On the plus side, the next chapter should be quicker. (:

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Appreciate is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

**&.Chapter 5**

X

_If there's one thing I've learned,  
it's that we never feel the heat  
until we get burned._

_But we try so hard not to die,  
sometimes we forget  
to appreciate life._

/ / Appreciate by The Spill Canvas

X

There was something a bit off about Mr. Muller. Harry had decided this before Professor McGonagall had even properly introduced them. He appeared to be in his mid-forties or early-fifties, with shortly cropped black hair and dark, unblinking eyes. There was something about him that seemed familiar or should jog Harry's memory, but as he met Mr. Muller's intense stare with his own, he was unable to place what. Professor McGonagall lingered near the back of the room, acting as Harry's guardian, while Mr. Muller sat at her desk, his hands folded neatly on its surface. He was stiff, tense, and Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

None of his questions were what Harry had expected. He had expected the man to delve right into why he was there and diagnose Harry within minutes, but for the good part of an hour, he asked Harry simple questions: who did he grow up with? How was school back then? Did he like Hogwarts? What was his favorite class and why? Did he like Quidditch? Who was his favorite professional team? Harry imagined he was trying to build reprieve and make him more relaxed, but it was only managing to make him more uncomfortable. Pomfrey's potion was wearing off and Harry's anger and confusion were starting to show through; his replies were brief, vague, often one worded, and he felt very much like a loaded coil, set to snap at any moment. Finally, Mr. Muller got to the meat of the matter and began asking Harry how he had been feeling lately.

Harry tried being as vague as possible, but Mr. Muller caught his act and reminded him that dishonesty would only hurt him further. Still, his replies were brief. He despised being put on display like this. He had always been told that he kept his heart on his sleeve, bared for the world to see, but discussing it was a much different matter.

Finally, Mr. Muller pushed himself from Professor McGonagall's chair and approached him, wand in hand.

"I'm going to need to do a few more tests, Mr. Potter," he said, offering Harry what he assumed was supposed to be a reassuring smile, "and then we'll discuss the results and possible treatments."

Harry simply nodded and did as he was instructed.

Déjà vu washed over him as Mr. Muller preformed the first test—it was the same one that Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall had preformed—but there were three more afterward. Mr. Muller and Professor McGonagall stepped just outside of her office and transfigured a window in the door so that Harry was within view. He watched them for a long minute before turning, shifting back into his seat and letting his eyes flicker around her office. There were surprising similarities in her decor and what had been Dumbledore's; his eyes lingered on the crystal dish of candy on her desk and he thought of things he usually avoided. He thought of Dumbledore and what he would say right then, how he would comfort Harry, and he could practically see the twinkle in his eyes. Harry's eyes slipped shut and Dumbledore's darkened, the twinkle fading until dull, lifeless eyes stared back at him—Harry's heartbeat quickened and Dumbledore's eyes changed, morphed into the lifeless brown of Mrs. Weasley's. Harry's eyes snapped open, but the image was burned into his retina—they changed again, shifted into a blank green, and his hands tightened around the edge of his chair.

So many had died and it was there, in that room, that they peered back at him, accusing and angry.

Harry let out a slow, shuddering breath, his chest tightening, and then the door opened.

He hated the bit of relief that flooded over him as Mr. Muller and Professor McGonagall returned.

He hated that he was unable to face his demons, as Professor McGonagall had put it.

And he hated the clear look of pity written across her face as she carefully avoided his eyes.

It was Mr. Muller that spoke, perching himself on the edge of the desk closest to Harry. Suddenly, Harry couldn't breathe.

"As far as I can tell," he started, his eyes firmly on Harry's, "Madame Pomfrey's diagnosis was correct."

His chest tightened and his eyes dropped to the floor. He shouldn't have been surprised, but, foolishly enough, Harry had let his hopes soar—he had hoped, with every fiber in his being, that it had been some sort of magical fluke. He didn't know how to handle this. He wasn't strong enough—he had been through too much already, endured too much, and now he felt as if the world were crashing down, directly on top of him. He managed to take in a breath, but it was shaky, pathetic.

Mr. Muller continued.

"You have several options available to you; the results were a bit.." he paused, searching for the right word, "..unusual. Do you have a history of mental illness in your family, Harry?"

Harry barely managed to shake his head, his fingers scratching at the underside of his chair. Of course he considered his aunt and uncle to be completely bonkers, but as far as he was aware, they weren't officially diagnosed.

"As expected," Mr. Muller said, with a slight nod. "I've been told that Madame Pomfrey mentioned this before, but it appears your magic is interfering, Harry. Do you know what that means?"

He shrugged, his shoulders tight. He was finding it increasingly difficult to focus on what Mr. Muller was saying—his voice seemed to fade in and out and the air was too loud in Harry's ears. He swallowed, hard, and tried meeting his eyes in an attempt to steady himself.

"It's uncommon, but not unheard of in a Wizard as powerful as yourself; what it means is that, because of stress and poor coping mechanisms, your magic is becoming too much for you to handle—it's breaking you, slowly, causing severe mental strain and probable schizophrenia."

Harry's forehead wrinkled. His magic was making him mad? He remembered how delighted he had been when he found out that he was a wizard, that he was special, wanted, coveted even—it had finally given Harry a home, friends, family, people who he cared about and cared in return—but it wasn't all good. It had cost him a lot. It had cost him his parents, his Godfather, and many others he had come to love—_no, Voldemort cost me that, _he corrected. Not magic. He could feel his eyes burning as his thoughts turned back to those he had lost and he tried blinking the sensation away.

"I cannot imagine the stress you've encountered, being who you are—judging by what little you've said of your Aunt and Uncle, you were never taught proper coping strategies. You were thrust into this life and the weight of our world was placed on your shoulders; you dealt with it the only way you could, and now you've succeeded," said Mr. Muller, his voice gentle, sickly sweet. There was something about what he was saying that knotted Harry's stomach and made his chest tighten. Harry took in another shaky breath, trying very hard not to give in—he could feel the anger pulling at him, pushing him into that dark place again, and he tried as hard as he could to focus, to stay there, in that room and in his mind. "You don't need to be as strong anymore, Harry—you need a break, and while it's ultimately your choice, I suggest taking a serum to inhibit your magic's interference."

His anger intensified, burning hot near his heart, and he opened his mouth but no words came out. Mr. Muller couldn't be suggesting what Harry thought he was—he couldn't be suggesting that he rid himself of his magic, turn his back onto the life he knew—no. He couldn't. Harry felt as if he were balancing on an edge, then, teetering precariously from one side to the other, his feet breaths away from slipping. He tried speaking again, but all that came was a sharp, shuddering breath—his words were caught in his throat, hard and unmanageable.

Mr. Muller placed a hand on Harry's shoulder—his touch was cooler than Harry had expected and he could feel the lines in Mr. Muller's hand through his pajama top. Mr. Muller's skin was a dark brown, cold, wrinkled, and thick, like leather. Harry visibly flinched.

"Relax, Harry," he instructed gently, "it won't take your magic away—not exactly. The best I can word it is this; the serum will simply make you less powerful, deactivate a portion of your magic until you're better equip to handle it, or what ever life, throws at you. Over a course of time, and with much practice, you may not need the potion—at which point, your magic would return, uninhibited and complete."

He _may _not need the potion—there was no guarantee. There was the possibility that he would never be better, that he would have to rely on it forever and this sickness would never leave. Harry couldn't breathe. He felt as if he were suffocating, as if the air in his lungs had betrayed him like his magic had—he looked away and focused on breaking through it, taking another long, shaky breath.

"What are his other options?" Professor McGonagall asked, her voice strained. Harry's eyes flicked to her—he had almost forgotten she was there. Her arms were folded carefully across her chest, shielding herself from the psychiatrist, and her mouth was set into a frown. Her age was apparent, again, the lines on her face amplified from worry.

Mr. Muller's hand retreated and Harry's shoulders relaxed a bit. He found it easier to breathe.

"There are other potions or serums to treat the disease itself, of course, but it would be foolish to do so without first addressing the possible cause. Treating the mental illness itself would be but a temporary solution," he replied, his eyes switching from Professor McGonagall and back to Harry, "you may feel more like yourself, Harry, but over time, your body—and magic—would become immune to the treatment and your mental fissures would resurface. Of course, neither treatment is full proof; there will still be remaining symptoms, but either form of treatment would make it more manageable. The former simply has an increased chance of curing, rather than just treating, the mental illness."

He paused, and Harry could feel his eyes, but he focused hard on Professor McGonagall.

"Of course," he said after another moment, "the choice is yours."

Silence blanketed the room and Harry knew he was expected to speak—he was expected to chose between two evils—either loose part of his magic and possibly be cured, or simply remain schizophrenic. His eyes dropped from Professor McGonagall to the floor, and then slipped shut. He swallowed, his eyes aching again, and he could feel his fingertips burning from digging at his chair—he focused on that sensation, embraced it, even, and opened his eyes. He let that burn overwhelm any other emotion or thought—he let it fill him up, strengthen him, and his heart quickened.

Finally, he opened his mouth, surprised at how easily the words came.

"The serum."

Mr. Muller smiled and Harry was reminded of Draco.

He shook his head slightly and then Mr. Muller's smile was normal, gentle and approving, and Harry vaguely wondered what else he had imagined.

X

Harry could only remember bits and pieces of his remaining session with Mr. Muller.

Voicing his decision out loud had felt like a betrayal to himself. He felt drained, and his anger had dissipated, as if it had given into his disease and his will to fight had faded. He frequently found himself fading in and out of awareness, and while he had tried listening to what sounded important, Harry couldn't be certain he had succeeded. Before Mr. Muller had given Harry the serum, he had made him aware of its side effects; it was very likely that he would have increased depression, mild to severe mood swings, stomach cramps, and head aches until his body adjusted to the treatment. He also informed Harry that his magic would suffer a greater loss during the first few weeks or until his hormone levels had balanced themselves. Once his body adjusted, the symptoms would pass, but until then, Mr. Muller had advised against lifting supervision. In addition, Mr. Muller would be traveling to Hogwarts every other day to have another session with Harry and ensure his treatment was progressing properly. Harry thought it brilliant that Mr. Muller hadn't informed him of any of this until after he had decided—weren't doctors supposed to make a person aware of their options _before _asking them to choose? There was that small part of him that entertained the idea he would have chosen differently, then, but deep down, he knew he wouldn't. If he really thought about it, his choice was obvious. He would rather be less powerful than powerful _and_ mad. After all, didn't that describe Voldemort perfectly? Powerful and mad?

Professor McGonagall had managed a compromise on Harry's behalf—a fellow student would be allowed to act as such supervision as long as they promised to report directly to Professor McGonagall in the event of any unusual changes in behavior. He would be assigned his own quarters with this person so that they could better observe him. Logically, Harry chose Ron, and then Mr. Muller handed him several light-blue vials labeled _Animi Ignis. _Shortly afterward, Harry was escorted back to the Hospital Wing until Professor McGonagall could speak to Ron and, much to his relief, there were no other students in sight. As unhappy as Harry was at the idea of being _observed, _as Mr. Muller had put it, he was grateful that it would be by Ron. Things would be less strange, then, and he appreciated the fact that it would be someone he knew he could trust, wholeheartedly, no matter what.

Harry was left in Pomfrey's care as Professor McGonagall left to fetch Ron and, with surprisingly little insistence on Pomfrey's part, Harry collapsed onto a bed and fell into a restless sleep.

X

He was running.

His lungs were dry, aching, heaving with each step, but he was unable to stop. Something invisible propelled him, a sense of urgency that he was unable to ignore. The treeline passed him in a blur of color until he neared a clearing, a brightly lit valley and a hilltop covered with sunflowers. He came to a screeching halt at the end of the forest, his feet hesitating as he stepped into the field.

He looked around, frantic, until his eyes caught on a dark figure just meters away. The person was on the ground, their body twisted into an unnatural angle.

Harry's feet moved on their own accord and he crouched down, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

A black, formless mask covered their face and their hood was drawn tightly around their head.

Harry reached out and unsecured the mask with a light touch of his hand—it fell to the ground and cracked. Lifeless gray eyes stared up at him and he fell back, unable to break their stare. There was laughter in the distance, sharp and maniacal, and the shadows edged out of the forest and into the clearing. Harry wanted very much to run but he was immobile, statuesque, as Draco's robes began shredding themselves, disintegrating around him. He was so pale, too pale, and there was a slight blue tint to his unnaturally translucent skin—Harry's eyes moved to his forearm and lingered, caught on black ink which was a startling contrast.

There was a hand on his shoulder then, cold like leather, and Harry awoke with a start.

He darted up, out of bed, and his eyes caught on gray. He blinked furiously, withdrawing and scooting away, his back pressed against his headboard. Gray eyes morphed into brown as the person shifted, and Ron gave Harry a slight frown, his hand dropping to his lap. The light from his wand shifted as well and Harry swallowed, hard, his body relaxing against the wooden frame.

"You were screaming, mate," Ron explained, his voice hoarse from sleep. Harry frowned, adverting his eyes. He had started taking the potion but a day prior and, as Mr. Muller had warned, its effects were strong—so strong that Harry wasn't even capable of casting a decent silencing charm, apparently.

"Sorry," he mumbled, a shiver racking his body.

Ron shrugged.

"Don't be," he said simply, slipping off of Harry's bed. He could only imagine what Harry saw when he closed his eyes—and it wasn't something he liked to picture often.

Harry watched, through a parted canopy, as Ron returned to his own bed. He offered Harry a stiff, tired smile, and the light from the tip of his wand faded as he banished it, tucking it securely under his pillow. Nearly as soon as his head touched it, Harry was aware of his breathing deepening. The corner of his mouth twitched and Harry reached for his wand, conjuring the time. It appeared out of thin air in front of him, but its numbers were weak, faded and sloppy. He exhaled sharply, suddenly, frustrated at his sudden incompetence, and swatted the light away with his hand. Class would be starting in a few hours, and while there was plenty of time to sleep, Harry didn't want to wake Ron again. His nightmares were his problems and his alone. He slipped from his bed as quietly as he could, dreading the day to come; yesterday he and Ron had both been excused from class. He had been able to keep up in their quarters playing games and reading—Hermione had even offered to bring them food so that Harry didn't have to face the other students. Their hiatus was short lived, however, and Professor McGonagall insisted that they return to their daily routine. Mr. Muller said it would be good for him—but Harry didn't understand how enduring the poorly concealed whispers and curious looks could possibly be of any help.

Grabbing his glasses, Harry weaved gracefully through the darkness, guided only by a light stream of moonlight, and into their shared bathroom. He shut the door quietly behind him and it lit up automatically. Harry squinted, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand until he saw stars. Blinking them away, he put his glasses on and, gradually adjusting to the light, moved toward the sink.

He wasn't entirely sure why he had to attend classes anyway—it would be rather pointless, really, especially the ones that required active participation. He couldn't even conjure the time—how was he supposed to transfigure furniture and ward off monsters three times his size? His heart ached and he tried not to think of everything he was loosing. Instead, he grabbed one of his vials from its case on the counter. It slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor, its glass shattering on impact. Its contents swirled across the floor in a dizzying design, the potion reflecting the light and turning into a murky puddle of colors.

Cussing loudly, Harry crouched down to clean up the mess. He thought of using his wand, but knew that it would be pointless—_might as well get used to doing things the muggle way again_, he thought bitterly.

He set a few of the larger pieces on top of the counter, pulling back as a sliver of glass worked its way into his hand. The remnants of the potion burned and Harry let out a hiss of a breath, pulling the glass from his skin with clumsy fingers. He dropped it back onto the floor and rubbed at his wound—it was but the size of a quill's tip but it burned, itched, and Harry swayed back, moving to sit onto the floor.

His skin darkened, turning from a light tan to a gruesome purple, and the veins in his skin were apparent—he could see the potion working its way into his blood stream, like liquid metal, and he clawed at it, his breathing frantic—and then it was gone.

His skin was its normal color and there was but a smeared spot of blood.

He let out a shaky breath and confusion blanketed his mind.

_So pathetic, _a voice taunted. _Is this what you've amounted to?_

He pressed his hands against his forehead and tried steadying himself, applying copious amounts of pressure to his temples—his vision wavered and his hands fell, his skin scraping the glass beside him. There was a familiar burning and Harry quickly looked at his skin, worry written across his forehead, but the burning quickly subsided and nothing else happened. There was simply another cut, a hair's length, with tiny droplets of blood passing through.

His expression melted and he simply stared at it, the color entrancing.

This was it, then.

What his life had amounted to—a mental break down on the cold bathroom floor—the desire to act as pathetic as he felt. He thought of Voldemort, then, his blood mirroring his eyes. Red. Empty. The color of passion, fire, and life—and, ironically enough, the color of nothing. The color of madness. Harry let out a slow, even breath, and glanced at the door. Straining his ears, he could hear Ron shift—he could hear the mattress groan and then there was a loud snore. He swallowed and glanced back down at the palm of his hand.

Carefully, and with surprising steadiness, Harry picked up another shard of glass.

Slowly, deliberately, he dragged it across his skin.

_So pathetic, _the voice echoed.

And Harry silently agreed.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: **I'm so glad I've been able to update this quickly, and again, I'd like to thank all of you that have reviewed. Hell, I'd like to thank all of you that have read it, even. (: You all pretty much keep me sane.

And, in case any of you were wondering, the lyrics at the beginning of the chapters don't necessarily describe the chapter itself. It's just something I was listening to at the time that inspired me and that I found fitting.

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Bracelets is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

**&.Chapter 6**

X

_I was hoping I could tell you this with two feet on the ground,  
but I don't think I can talk, _

_because I'm not very stable right now.  
No, I'm not very stable right now._

/ / Bracelets by The Spill Canvas.

X

Harry practically fell into his seat, careful to keep his eyes on the table. Ron and Hermione trailed behind him; Ron slid into the seat beside him and Hermione walked to the other side. She dropped her rucksack beneath the table and made an indignant noise as she plopped down in front of him.

"This is absolutely ridiculous," she declared, flicking some hair from her face.

Harry barely looked up. He was aware of the other students shifting a bit, sliding their plates down and clustering together a fair meter or so away. He tried to ignore the sharp bit of pain that wedged itself between his heart and ribs. At least his fellow Gryffindors were able to keep their staring to a minimum and only glanced at him when they thought he wasn't looking—the other houses weren't as considerate and, for the better part of the morning, had simply gawked. He was reminded of the snake his cousin Dudley had harassed before he knew he was a Wizard. He had felt mildly mad, then, unaware of his gifts or power.

Absently, he tugged on the sleeves of his robes, smoothing the fabric with an unconcerned hand. His skin prickled, his sleeves catching on the hairline scabs running along his outer forearm. Hermione fumed and Harry really wished she would just drop it; it was easier to ignore when she wasn't bringing it up every five minutes.

"They're acting completely preposterous," she continued, "as if you're—"

She stopped and Harry automatically glanced up, following her gaze. Another Gryffindor was staring at him—a first or second year, maybe—and Hermione plastered a fake smile on her face, waving her hand in front of Harry and breaking their gaze.

"Can we _help _you with _something?" _she asked loudly, and through clenched teeth.

The girl had enough common sense to look sheepish and quickly turned back to her friends.

Hermione sighed and turned back to her two friends.

"I mean, _really. _How do they know, anyway?"

"They are acting a bit—err, really—absurd," Ron replied, shrugging, changing his opinion mid-sentence at the look Hermione was giving him.

It had been like this ever since Harry had surfaced from his quarters.

The school was alive with rumors and poorly concealed gossip, secrets said behind a raised hand or muttered quietly behind his back. It hurt more than it should. He had always been a person of interest, for obvious reasons, and that had hardly changed after he defeated Voldemort. Ever since he rejoined the magical world, people had whispered about him. Curious looks had followed him where ever he went. Over the years, he had learned to ignore it. He had built up a wall, gradually and over the course of time, so that he was able to keep his sanity and mental well-being intact, but as that crumbled, so did his defenses. He was painfully aware, now, and that in itself bothered him more than their looks or rumors. He felt vulnerable, exposed, and he hated it. Hermione assumed that the Hufflepuff that had found Harry had opened his mouth even further, and Ron blamed Draco—Harry could care less, but there was the sinking feeling in his stomach, the tightly wound knot that told him their whispers were about more than his concussion or attempted suicide. His classes were going much too slow. Harry wanted nothing more than to burrow into his bed again, close his eyes, and embrace the creeping darkness gnawing at his soul. Everything else was pointless, anyway; his first class had been Advanced Magic, a step-up from Charms, and his second had been Transfiguration. In both cases, and as expected, he had been forced to sit most of their exercises out. He had tried, of course, but his magic was too weak. Within minutes, he had felt light-headed, dizzy, and he had quickly been shoved off onto the side lines and promised, with a reassuring smile, that he would have his own lesson plan within a week. The professors' reassurances were unnecessary and only served to make him feel more pathetic. And the whispers increased.

Hermione looked a bit placated after Ron agreed, and she instead turned to Harry, eying him worriedly.

"Are you okay, Harry?" she asked, her voice softer now, just above a whisper.

The corner of his mouth twitched and he fought to keep his voice level.

"Fine," he said briefly. That had been, what—the one hundredth and ninth time Hermione had asked him that today?

She nodded, not looking even a bit convinced, and started loading her plate. Ron had already started in on his and Harry's was empty—he was staring at it, tracing its outline with his eyes and etching idle designs into its reflection. Hermione watched him for a moment before adding, "You should really eat something."

Harry felt his shoulders tense and his eyes flicked up to hers, darker than usual, and she offered him a half-smile. She knew that harping on him wasn't helping any—every time she asked a question or tried helping him, he seemed to withdraw further into himself. Ron had told her multiple times to lay off, but it was hard. She felt so helpless—Harry's world wasn't the only one spiraling out of control, and every time he lashed out, a piece of hers broke away.

"At least try?" she asked finally, holding his gaze for but a moment longer.

Then, she turned to Ron and began talking about the newest version of Hogwarts, a History. Harry relaxed a bit and, in response, loaded a spoonful of shepherd's pie onto his plate. He knew Hermione was trying to help, and he knew that, under normal circumstances, he would be more patient with her—but nothing about him was normal right then and Harry struggled to give her that leeway. He would try eating, at least, if only to reinforce her silence.

X

They were nearly finished with lunch when Hermione let out a borderline screech and tossed her copy of The Daily Prophet onto the table in front of them. She had tucked it away at breakfast without so much of a glance, deciding to read it later, and now she regretted that decision. Harry nearly dropped his fork and Ron sputtered up some half-chewed food. There, on the front page, was Harry's face. It was the snap-shot from after the final battle: his hair was matted down from sweat and there were patches of dirt littering his skin. His glasses were broken and his eyes looked everywhere but at the camera. Above him, the headline read: The Next Dark Lord?

Harry's eyes traced over the title and the knot in his stomach tightened.

"In an ironic twist," Hermione quoted bitterly, "sixteen-year-old Harry Potter, who defeated the mad man, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, has become mad himself. Is he the next Dark Lord? Only time will tell."

Harry could feel the sadness and betrayal. It started as an annoying itch in the back of his throat and then moved to his eyes, a tell-tale burn, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He let out a slow, deliberate breath, and Hermione reached across the table to touch his hand. Her fingers were warm, soft, and her touch light. Harry pulled away.

Ron cursed, reading the first few lines.

"Psychiatrist? Schizophrenic?" he muttered, his expression darkening. "Bleeding prophet—how did they know this?"

Ron glanced to Hermione and Harry focused on keeping his breathing even. That explained it, then—the looks, the whispers, the knot in his stomach—brilliant, just brilliant. He tried pulling himself together and regaining what little composure he had. Having another break down right then just wouldn't do. He refused to let them see him that weak, refused to reinforce their twisted ideas and embrace The Prophet's logic.

"It wasn't the Hufflepuff," Hermione replied simply. She turned and cast a deliberate look at the Slytherin table.

Harry's eyes opened and, automatically, he followed her gaze, easily finding Draco's light head of hair. He was talking to a dark-haired Slytherin that reminded him a bit of that Zabini fellow that died in the war—Harry frowned as the other elbowed him gently and Draco snickered. As if on cue, Draco shifted a bit in his seat and his eyes caught Harry's.

He flashed Harry a deliberate, twisted smile—more of a smirk, really—and Harry's nails dug into the table, his heartbeat hard.

X

There were times Ron was a little too unobservant, a little too unaware—and as Harry turned a corner behind his friend and ducked into the nearest corridor, he was mindful that this was one of those times. As soon as he was out of Ron's sight, he slumped against the nearest wall. It felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His heart lightened a bit at his sudden, no doubt short-lived, solitude. In minutes, Ron would notice that he was entering their next class alone and he would surely come looking for him.

He sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes with tired fingers. He just needed to escape for a bit.

It had been one day but everything was already so tiring—the whispers, the looks, being constantly watched—he felt weak, drained, and wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and wish it all away.

_Coward._

The thought was quiet, a whisper at first, but echoed through his mind a thousand times. There was something different about it, something off—its voice wasn't his own and his eyes darted open. There was something clawing at the edge of his consciousness, a familiarity he should recognize but was unable to. His forehead wrinkled and he stared at the wall in front of him. Images flickered—blurred pictures, as if he were looking under water—that sunflower field, the hill's crest—darkness, thundering clouds, and red eyes—his heartbeat was quickening and there was something against his mouth, making it hard to breathe. It was warm, musty and Harry rubbed at his face with frantic hands.

There was a noise to his right and everything stopped—there were no memories, no invisible predator, and Draco rounded the corner, his eyes widening slightly as they met Harry's. Harry quickly shoved his glasses back on.

"Well, well, well," Draco drawled, moving closer. His movements were slow, casual, and Harry was reminded of a cat before it pounced. Draco leaned against the wall beside him, breaths away, and Harry struggled to regain his composure. "What do we have here? Little Potter-kins get lost?"

Draco's mouth curled into a half-smirk, half-sneer, and his eyes lingered on the muscle working in Harry's jaw. One remark and he had already managed to fluster the other—his eyes almost sparkled in delight, his amusement apparent.

Harry's skin crawled. He could feel the heat radiating off of Draco's body, could almost smell the other's shampoo—his eyes met Draco's and his face twisted into a scowl, his expression darkening.

_This is his fault. _

The thought echoed again, and anger wrapped around his heart. He imagined shoving Draco back, grinding his face against the wall, his skin scraping against the stone, peeling off and burning—Draco's smirk widened at Harry's expression, and Harry imagined bloodied teeth.

"Your fault," he muttered, voicing the thought aloud.

Smirk still firmly in place, both of Draco's eyebrows lifted.

"Excuse you, Potter?"

Harry held Draco's gaze for a moment longer before looking away, pushing himself away from the wall and stepping back.

_It's always his fault, isn't it? _the voice continued, louder this time. _Things would be so much easier if he didn't exist._

"So much easier," he mumbled, his eyes surveying Draco's face. Draco's smirk faded a bit and he narrowed his eyes—there was something off about Harry, then. He was reminded of the shadow in the Hospital Wing, the detached, sort of light, version of Harry. There was emotion, but it was vague, barely there, as if Harry were struggling with it before Draco's very eyes. Harry simply stared and Draco waved a hand in front of his face, barely suppressing the urge to snap his fingers.

"Potter?" he muttered, irritation tugging at his voice. _Of course _Harry would have another damn mental break down while he was there—of-bloody-_course. _Harry barely blinked at the movement and, frustrated, Draco reached out and pushed on his shoulder. Harry visibly startled, his expression changing, lightening for but a moment. He gave Draco a strange look and Draco thought of the library, the inquisitive look Harry gave him as he realized where he was.

Harry's expression quickly darkened again and he glared at Draco.

Draco narrowed his eyes.

"Potter?"

"I'm lost," Harry agreed, replying to his first question, "going to give The Prophet a ring now, yeah?"

Draco's mouth twisted into another smirk as he put two and two together.

"Speaking ore nonsense, I see," he said conversationally, shaking his head in mock-concern. "Maybe they should increase your potions."

He could see the muscle working in his jaw again, and Harry's nostrils flared. He was sick of Draco's mind games—as if he didn't have enough on his plate without the bullheaded Slytherin trying to add more. This was Draco's fault—everything that had gone bad in Harry's life, recently, had been connected to him. His apparent suicide attempt, the article in The Prophet—Harry moved closer, his eyes flashing.

"You—you pathetic, arrogant, sniveling git—"

"Calm yourself, Scarhead," Draco interrupted, his eyes flashing. "I won't be saving you from any windows this time."

"That's rich," Harry bit out, his hands clenched into fists, "as if you had _nothing _to do with that—"

"Oh, yes, Potter," Draco said loudly, clearly humoring, "_I'm _the reason _you're_ suicidal_._"

"I'm not suicidal!" Harry replied, practically yelling the words. His anger flared again and he wanted nothing more than to shut Draco up—he gritted his teeth, his nails digging into the palms of his hands.

Harry's anger was obvious and Draco felt that thrill of pleasure again—his smirk twisted into a smile, cool and taunting, and his voice was barely above a whisper.

"Bonkers, then. Absolutely, brilliantly, and bleeding _mad."_

Harry's eyes flashed.

"Take it back," he managed, his voice dangerously low.

Both of Draco's eyebrows darted up again. He gave Harry a challenging look.

"Make me."

Harry clenched his jaw tighter, his vision wavering a bit at the pressure.

"Careful, I—"

Draco audibly snorted.

"What are you going to do, curse me?" he asked, his voice hard. He tilted his head slightly to the side, surveying Harry, basking in his emotional turmoil. Harry was tense, so tense, and Draco knew he was ready to snap. His adrenaline thrummed, pleasure shooting through him, and he continued very slowly, his voice practically acidic. "I've heard the rumors, Potter; you're practically a _Squib_. You're _nothing. No-one._"

Draco paused, moving a bit closer so that he was a breath away from Harry again. He met Harry's glare with an even one of his own.

"How does it feel?" he pressed, silently delighted. He couldn't believe his luck—Harry had fallen from his pedestal and lay broken on the floor, and Draco was there to watch his cracks intensify. Finally, Harry would feel what he felt—he would feel the utter unimportance Draco dealt with on a daily basis, the feeling of his world falling to pieces around him, the ground slipping from beneath his feet—finally, Harry would know what Draco did. Nothing mattered. _Nothing._

Especially not him.

Harry was practically shaking. He could feel Draco's body heat again. He was painfully aware of his breath against his face, warm but cool at the same time—his heart was loud in his chest, hard, beating against his ribs and making him tremble with its sheer force.

"I don't know," he said finally, the words coming out choked, hard. "You tell me."

His stomach tightened some and then, before he had really registered the movement, Harry reeled back and forward, his fist coming into sharp contact with the edge of Draco's jaw.


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: **I think this chapter starts to touch base with what happened during the war and the final battle. Hopefully, I'll be explaining more of it in the next chapter to clear up any confusion; I'm not a _huge _fan of the last bit of this chapter, but I was unable to think of what to add. Suggestions would be appreciated, of course, as would feedback. (: Thanks to all of you that have reviewed, read, favorited, or followed this story! I hope it doesn't disappoint.

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. To Chicago is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

**&.Chapter 7**

X

_Started sleeping on the train  
to obliterate the pain  
when the frost began to bite.  
Every time the morning came  
I found another me that I could blame. _

/ / To Chicago by The Spill Canvas

X

The change in Harry was almost instantaneous—he grappled with his anger, trying desperately to recall it and its cause. With a sharp breath, Harry felt himself deflate, as if his emotion had been taken away, drawn out when he needed it most, regret quickly seeping in place of the anger nearly the second his skin had come into contact with Draco's. It was clearly too late to do anything else; there was a strange sort of crack and then Draco was stumbling back, slightly, his hand moving to cradle his jaw. His eyes were widened in surprise and within a moment, his hand had fallen and twisted into a fist. Harry stepped back once, twice, and was then flush against the wall, Draco quickly closing the distance. He let out a low, almost feral growl, and lunged forward—Harry quickly moved to the side, weaving out of Draco's way, and there was another crack as his fist hit the stone.

Draco cursed loudly and Harry quickly stepped back again, ducking behind and away from him.

Adrenaline coursed through both boys, but Harry's was weakened, off, a shadow of what it should be, considering the circumstance.

"Malfoy—don't, I—"

Draco quickly turned and moved to strike again. Harry hurried out of his way, dodging another swing. He reached into his robes to fumble with his wand, but he was too slow and it was pointless anyway; Draco was quicker and had his wand withdrawn before Harry's fingers had even brushed his. Harry swallowed, edging back a bit more.

"Wait—maybe we could just—"

"—just _what, _Potter? Talk?" Draco sneered, his wand hand steady now, pointed directly at Harry's chest. The idea was laughable, but Harry raised his hands in reply, palms up, as if to signal a truce.

Draco raised a single eyebrow, surveying the boy in front of him for but a moment. There was a subtle sort of change again—he could see it, barely, but it was there, and his adrenaline and anger flared. He had wanted so badly to push Harry over that edge, make him break just that little bit more—and he had, for a moment, but that moment had quickly passed. His reaction wasn't what he had been hoping for—Harry had disappointed him, and yet Draco refused to back down. He would take what he had and try to manage with it. After all, it wasn't often that Draco had Harry at the end of his wand, poised and helpless. The odds were in his favor and Draco didn't dare turn his back on them.

Harry shrugged. He didn't really know what he was about to suggest—his eyes flicked from Draco's face to his wand and back and he was overwhelmed with the need to try, the desire to say something, anything, so that Draco didn't prove he was as weak and powerless as he felt.

"Why not?" he tried, the words a bit forced.

Draco gave him an amused look, his eyes flashing as he stepped closer. He would toy with Harry a bit, he decided, try to enjoy what he could.

"Have it your way, then," Draco replied, his smirk amused but cold. He waved his wand a bit, gesturing to Harry in a very deliberate way. "Talk."

Harry swallowed, hard, peering at Draco through glasses that were slightly askew. He searched for something to say but he felt empty, inexplicably so, and it was hard to conjure words without meaning. He settled with something simple. Unbelievable, but simple.

"I, err—I'm sorry?"

Draco made an indignant noise and his smirk shifted into a bit of a smile, dark and almost malicious.

"Doubtful," he replied, cocking his head to the side. "I _do_ suggest trying harder, Potter."

Harry knew he should be angry—seething, really. There was so much about Draco that he had come to despise. There was so much about him that made his skin crawl, set his eyes and heart on fire, and it was apparent that Draco enjoyed such reactions. It was apparent that he was enjoying _this, _toying with Harry like a mouse toyed with a cat before it started tearing at its flesh with sharp teeth. He looked at Draco's wand again, trying to think coherently inside of the emptiness. If he was quick enough, maybe he could lunge forward and manage to disarm Draco—after all, _he _was the one that had brought a wand to a fistfight.

"I said _talk, _Potter," pressed Draco, drawing Harry's eyes back to his face. His mouth curled into a sneer, and as if he had realized what Harry was considering, he flicked his wand toward his legs and added, "_tarantallegra!_"

Harry was blanketed with a thick feeling of familiarity as his legs began to shake uncontrollably, moving in a sort of offbeat dance, a quickstep similar to second year. He tried resisting but putting pressure on his muscles only made them ache. Resistance was futile and Harry's eyes dropped down to his feet before returning to Draco's face. Draco looked as if he wanted to laugh and Harry was aware of a bit of feeling wedging its way into the emptiness, tight between his heart and ribs. He thought of the looks and whispers he had received throughout the morning—they were all laughing at him, he was sure. He had saved them more times than he could count and yet they were laughing, silently judging him for being weak—human.

"What's wrong, Potter?" called Draco, smirking again, "Speechless?"

He hesitated a bit but before Harry could reply, Draco shrugged and said, "Very well."

"_Tu—"_

Harry had seen his chance—so he took it. Before Draco could finish his curse, Harry was reaching for his wand, his movement jerky because of his constant dance. He was unable to reach it, his fingers _just_ touching the reassuring wood, but the movement served its purpose. Draco stopped, mid-spell, and instead stepped forward, shouting, "_Expelliarmus_!"

Acting quickly, Harry leaned forward, shifting his weight, and tried putting as much force behind the movement as he could. His legs automatically pushed from the ground, continuing their dance, and at Harry's current angle, served to push him toward Draco. He nearly lunged through the air. Before Draco could react, Harry was coming in contact with his abdomen and they fell to the ground. Draco let out a sharp breath on impact, grimacing, and then there were footsteps, loud and quick from the adjoining corridor. Harry was practically on top of him. He tried pushing Harry off and away, but Harry's legs were still moving, kicking at him and blocking his struggles. Draco's heart was racing and he frantically looked for his wand—having dropped it on impact, it was a fair meter or so away. And then Harry's hand pulled his hair, jerking his face back toward his, and he grunted, putting his weight into pushing the other off again. The footsteps grew nearer and Draco's struggles increased; Harry's fingers scratched at him, pulling at his hair or pushing at his chest, and his own hands were trying to hit what ever they could.

There was a loud gasp as the footsteps came to a halt and then, Draco's burden lightened; Harry was lifted by a flash of blue light and practically thrown against a nearby wall. Before Draco could turn to see the caster, he felt a similar spell overtake his own body—he hit the wall with a _thud!, _his muscles screaming in protest.

There was an unseen force pressing him against the wall, restraining his movement, and Harry blinked up, owlishly, his eyes catching on Professor McGonagall's. His legs fought to spasm against her invisible hand, his muscles burning, and he gritted his teeth, gasping, relieved when she pointed her wand at him and said, "_Finite Incantatem!"_

His legs stilled and he practically collapsed against the wall, the pressure relieving itself.

Across from him, Draco deflated as well, his eyes wild and hair mussed.

Harry's eyes shifted to Ron, who was practically cowering behind the headmistress, his eyes wide as they met Harry's. He saw Ron look to Draco and his mouth twitched as his friend suppressed a grin. His eyes quickly darted back to Professor McGonagall, however, as she spoke.

"My office," she said clearly. Although her tone was even, low, it seemed to reverberate against the walls. "_Now."_

X

Pomfrey had already been in to tend to their wounds—none were very severe. Draco had managed the worst of it with a few broken knuckles. Aside from that, most of their injuries were simple cuts, scrapes, or bruises, and Professor McGonagall had ordered Pomfrey to leave them. She patched up Draco's knuckles and gave him the appropriate potion before returning to the Hospital Wing, managing to cast one last disapproving look over her shoulder as she left.

Ron, Harry, and Draco were each seated in front of her desk now, and Professor McGonagall's eyes swept across the three boys with a stern gaze. Ron struggled to refrain from stealing glances at Harry, and both Harry and Draco were content with staring at the floor. Harry tried focusing on his heartbeat, steady and sure, his thoughts anything but. He felt so unbelievably _stupid. _He had foughtwith _Malfoy—_physically _fought—_and there was all of this business about ensuring that he wasn't a threat to himself or others. Luckily, he had been able to keep his robes on as Pomfrey had looked him over—there was no doubt that the few, thin scratches across his forearm would be of little help to his cause.

Finally, Professor McGonagall spoke, her voice low, and Harry clenched his jaw.

"Who started it?"

Her eyes switched from one student to another, lingering on Harry.

Harry swallowed, hard, his skin crawling a bit under her intense stare.

"I said—who _started _it?" she repeated, pausing. "Mr. Potter?"

Begrudgingly, Harry lifted his eyes and met hers. He could feel Ron's eyes on him, curious, and he licked his lips.

"He did," he said quietly, remembering the light shove to his shoulder. Maybe it wasn't the whole truth, but right then, Harry felt as if his honesty had been thrown out the window with his sanity.

Draco's eyes darted up, narrowed, and lingered on Harry, unsurprised. His cracks were beginning to show and, apparently, even gold could rust.

"Liar," he bit out, looking to Professor McGonagall. "He's lying. _He _started it."

Professor McGonagall's eyebrows shot up slightly and her eyes switched from one boy to the other.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," she agreed finally, mouth set. "One of you _is _a liar—but which one?"

Draco's mouth puckered into a scowl and for a moment, he thought he had heard Ron suppressing a snicker. He kept his eyes even with Professor McGonagall's. Of _course _she would take Harry's side, just like that old fool Dumbledore had. Draco really wasn't expecting a fair judgment, but he was hardly going to back down, either—especially when _he _was telling the truth.

"Would I look like this if I had started it?" he challenged.

"So what if 'Arry kicked your—" Ron bit out before he could stop himself. Draco disgusted him, and the fact that he was sitting there, currently trying to lay the blame on Harry—Ron's temper flared, but Professor McGonagall interrupted him before he could finish the sentence.

"That's enough, Mr. Weasley."

Draco's scowl darkened and he looked past Harry to glare at Ron. Ron returned the glare with a scowl of his own, and Harry simply dropped his eyes to his lap.

_So you're a _lying _little coward, _said a voice in his head. Harry grimaced, his eyes slipping shut at the thought. The last word echoed again, reverberating in his mind and drilling itself into his subconscious. He was a coward. A lying, pathetic, weak _coward. _

Professor McGonagall surveyed Harry quietly for a moment. He had withdrawn into himself and she was reminded of those few days ago in the Hospital Wing when he had been completely unaware of his actions or his appropriate fate. Images flashed through her mind, bits and pieces of the final battle—she thought of his expression when he apparated just off the grounds. He had been dirty, bruised and bloody. He had been triumphant and yet, even then, there had been something off about his expression—a dark glint in his eye, a sadness that showed what he had lost hardly compared to what he had won.

Her eyes moved to Draco. Draco met her gaze with an even look of his own. She thought of that night, nearly a year ago, when Draco had sought refuge. He was afraid, unsure of what to decide, and had come to the Headmaster with bloodshot eyes. Albus had turned him away after oblivating his memory. He had been a brilliant man, Albus, but his decision had never sat well with her. He had done it for the greater good. Draco had been a needed pawn in his plan for the final battle—he had been a needed piece in forcing Voldemort's hand, and while it _had _been for the greater good, there was a part of her that ached for him. Surely there must have been another option, another way for things to play out—for both boys.

She sighed, glancing down at her desk for but a moment.

"I shouldn't have to explain the consequences to either of you," she said finally, her eyes sweeping across them again.

At this, Draco finally adverted his eyes.

Draco had been requested to kill Dumbledore the year before in their sixth year. He had failed miserably and his punishment had been swift. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named sought revenge for his failure by punishing those who raised him to fail; his father was tortured at the hand of Snape, his godfather, and his mother was given to Fenrir Greyback. He had been forced to watch as he tore her apart—forced to listen to her screams. At night, when it was quiet, that's all Draco could hear. Once the war ended, and with his mother dead and father sentenced to Azkaban, Draco had been given to a distant family member in Bulgaria with no _known _ties to the Dark Lord. Draco knew it was bullocks—there was money involved, lots of it. Just because Harry had managed to defeat He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named hardly meant the end of corruption. Draco barely knew this family member, but he was certain that the Ministry was overlooking something. He would have rather been tried and sentenced for crimes he did not yet commit than to be given to a family member as unhappy with his failure as the Dark Lord had been. Professor McGonagall and a few of the remaining order members had spoken on his behalf. Somehow, and Salazar knew why, they had managed to convince the Ministry that the best place for Draco would be Hogwarts, someplace familiar and under strict supervision. They assigned him as a temporary ward of the school—provided she could keep him out of trouble and in line.

Harry simply nodded, pursing his lips. He thought of St. Mungos and vaguely wondered if it would be anything like the insane asylums pictured on the telly. He knew he was stupid, so stupid to have fought with Draco—but it was too late, always too late, and there was nothing he could do but accept his fate. He should be used to it, really—wasn't that always his final option? Besides, this was his fault. _It's always your fault, _said the voice. Harry felt little but a pang of guilt at that thought and his emptiness quickly brushed it away.

Professor McGonagall let out another slow breath, an exasperated sort of sigh, and she leaned forward a bit in her seat.

"I could, however, be persuaded to keep the event between us," she said delicately, her eyes passing over the three boys and lingering on the last two. "The decision is yours."

Harry looked up, his eyebrows puckering a bit at the thought. There was something in her tone and mannerism, something that let him know he was hardly off the hook—but that something had to be better than an insane asylum. He nodded, his heart quickening a bit in his chest.

Draco cocked an eyebrow and, albeit more hesitantly, nodded as well.

"Very well. Considering you appear to be so—" she paused for but a moment to choose the proper word, "—_concerned_—with Mr. Potter's well-being, Mr. Malfoy, and considering you appear to be incapable of doing as asked, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Malfoy will be taking over your charge."

Harry thought his world should be crashing down around him, again, but it remained firmly in place.

Still, the word came out on its own accord, strangled, a mere whisper.

"_What?"_

Ron said it in unison, drowning out the word with his own voice, loud and disgusted.

"You can't do this!" continued Ron, scooting to the edge of his seat. He glared at Draco, his face flushed as he said, "He'll bloody kill him!"

Professor McGonagall gave Ron a hard look and raised a hand to silence him.

"I can and I have, Mr. Weasley; I suggest you return to Gryffindor tower. Your things will be waiting."

Harry was staring at his lap again, tracing the folds in his robes with his eyes. He supposed it was fitting. He _had _wanted to die, apparently—let Draco finish it, then. The idea bothered him less than it should, and he looked up with a detached sort of interest as Ron moved from his seat. He was shaking a bit, his anger apparent, and a part of Harry sought it out. A part of Harry understood it, wanted it, and even needed it—somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice echoed the word _blood traitor. _Ron gave him a lingering look before turning back to Professor McGonagall.

"Please, Professor," he said quietly, through his anger, "give me another chance—don't stick Harry with _him._"

Harry was slipping away in front of Ron—he was worried, panicked. There was a hard knot, a sinking feeling in his stomach—dread, maybe. He couldn't lose Harry, too. He had lost his mother, Fred, and nearly his sister Ginny. Her injuries had been so extensive, she had been in the infirmary for nearly two weeks. If Professor McGonagall did this, if Harry was forced to bunk with _Malfoy—_in his state, well, surely Ron would lose him too.

Professor McGonagall knew that her decision seemed brash, stupid even, but there was a method to her madness. With those two boys in mind, the two from a year ago, she wanted to give them another chance; she wanted Draco to learn something besides hate and she hoped that, along the way, Harry could relearn his compassion. Draco had saved Harry, after all—and over the years, she had witnessed how intense their relationship was. In the right circumstances, she hoped that it could help them thrive.

Her lips puckered a bit and she raised both eyebrows, peering at Ron through her glasses.

"Leave," she replied simply, motioning to the door.

The muscle in Ron's jaw was twitching and his hands had turned into fists.

"No—please, just—" his words were hard but pleading, and Professor McGonagall pushed herself from her seat.

"I won't repeat myself again, Mr. Weasley. _Leave._"

Ron's shoulders slumped down, deflated but somehow tense, and he gave Draco a dark look as he turned to leave.

The door closed behind him and she turned back to Harry and Draco. She remained standing, pressing both hands to the surface of her desk and leaned forward a bit.

"I understand that this will be a hard transition, but I believe it is a needed one," she said finally, her voice a bit more gentle than before. "You both need to rebuild your lives. I suggest you start here, today."

Harry simply nodded, not quite comprehending the situation in its seriousness, or her reasoning behind it. If Draco had saved him, it had been for his own sadistic purposes and nothing else. Dumbledore had placed his faith in Draco, once—and Draco had tried killing him for it. Harry expected nothing less.

Draco's eyes were hard, but he knew it pointless to argue, and he was hardly one to walk away from the door when opportunity knocked. Living with Harry would have its advantages. He thought of earlier, of how close he had been to pushing Harry over that edge—how he had succeeded, if only for a moment, and the jolt of pleasure it had given him.

"You're dismissed," she finished simply, nodding once.


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: **I apologize that this chapter is so short and that it doesn't offer the explanation I promised.

This chapter was surprisingly, unfortunately so, difficult for me to write. Because of everyone's lack of feedback, I've been forced to check my daily views for reinforcement, but doing so actually seems to be having the opposite effect.

First, let me say that I'm writing these chapters one at a time. I have a general plot worked out, but I'm rubbish at writing things in advance and sticking to it. I need instant gratification. Not one of my best traits, nor one that I'm particularly fond or proud of, but it is what it is; to continue writing something, I _need_ instant gratification. I need feedback, be it encouragement or critique. I need to know I'm not talking to myself and that I do, in fact, have an audience.

That said, I am my own worst critic. Nine chances out of ten, I hate everything I've written with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.

I've managed to convince myself that although people _are _reading my story they hate it. That's why very few are leaving reviews. They hate it and are masochistic bastards. Twisted logic, I know, but my logic nonetheless—and I guess this brings me to the second thing I wanted to say. With that logic, why should I continue this story? I do have a life. I work, I have friends—why pine away at the computer writing when it seems to me to be so pointless?

I'm not trying to be a whine-ass, although I'm sure I'm coming across as such. I don't think my request is so outlandish. If you like this story enough to read every chapter, follow or favorite it, _please review, _especially _if you want me to continue. _

I need that boost of motivation and inspiration. I guess that's what this long, rambling author's note comes down to: **if you want me to continue this story, please review. **Let me know I'm not talking to myself and you're not a masochistic bastard but actually enjoy something about this story, be it the characters, plot, or just one bloody line.

So again.

**If you want me to continue this story, review. **

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Take One Breath is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

&**.Chapter 8**

X

_Take one breath and then take another.  
Repeat these simple steps  
until you feel like you're doing better.  
Take one breath,  
just let the calm of it consume you..  
Everybody knows that it's never fair,  
this is the only one thing we can do._

/ / Take One Breath by The Spill Canvas

X

As soon as the Headmistress' statue slid back into its place with a loud groan, Draco turned on Harry, his eyes liquid fire.

"Let's get a few things straight, _Potter," _he sneered, inching closer to Harry again. Harry didn't quite meet his eyes, instead eying the ugly color of purple his jaw had turned. "I am not, and will never be, your _watch dog._"

Harry gave him a bored look. His anger was obvious, radiating off of him in waves, and there was a small piece of Harry that felt alive at the sight. But over all, he was too tired, too drained, and too empty for Draco's threats to have any real affect.

He offered Draco a shrug, barely meeting his eyes, and said, "You'd be more like a watch-_ferret, _anyway."

Draco narrowed his eyes. The worst part wasn't the fact that he had been embarrassed beyond repair that day, but rather the punishment he had received from his father. The elder Malfoy had been disappointed and upset that Draco had let a mudblood-lover gain the upper hand, teacher or not, and had spent the following weekend drilling defense tactics into his head. He had been forced to remain in the dungeon for most of the weekend, with the exception of when his mother insisted he be at the table for dinner, and had a very distinct memory of the cold floor and the thick draft.

"Don't think you won't pay for your little _stunt _today, Potter—I promise I'll—"

Draco was interrupted as a dark haired man rounded the corridor's corner.

"Ah, Mr. Potter! Just the boy I wanted to see."

Harry looked past Draco and to Mr. Muller, forcing a small, strained smile.

"'Ello," he greeted quietly.

While he wasn't particularly fond of the idea of listening to Draco ramble about how his life would officially be a living hell, because clearly it wasn't already, Harry was even less fond of speaking to the man in front of him. Oblivious, Mr. Muller neared, standing to the side between Harry and Draco.

"I apologize for being a bit early," he said, "but it's what my schedule as allowed."

Harry offered him an absent shrug, tensing a bit under Mr. Muller's unblinking stare. Thankfully, he turned to Draco.

"And who's this young man?"

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"This young man," Draco quoted, sneering a bit, "is none of your concern."

The corner of Mr. Muller's mouth pulled into a slight, condescending smile.

"You're Malfoy's boy, then," he said, answering his own question. His eyes ran up and down the length of Draco, taking him in, unblinking and hard when they returned to his face. Draco remained expressionless, a trait Harry might have envied if he were in his right mind. "I'd recognize those traits anywhere. I evaluated your father at his Ministry hearing."

It was only then that a bit of emotion worked its way onto Draco's face. His anger was apparent again and Harry thought he tensed—but he could have very well imagined the action. He had heard rumors, of course, but Mr. Muller had just confirmed it. The Ministry had evaluated the mental health of each Death Eater before sentencing. The few activists that caused such evaluations and rallied for fair trials were really quite sadistic; they wanted the Ministry to confirm that each criminal was in his or her right mind—they wanted to ensure their prisoners were sane so that they could properly punish them with the insanity of Azkaban.

"You must be so proud," Draco muttered, his voice hard. He held Mr. Muller's gaze with a challenging, unblinking one of his own. Harry's eyes darted from one person to the other—there was a battle of wills, an unseen struggle for control. He was more than slightly surprised when it was Draco that adverted his gaze, his eyes sweeping across and to Harry. He edged a little bit closer, despite Mr. Muller's presence, and Harry could feel his body heat again.

Harry shifted a bit.

"This conversation isn't over, _Potter,_" Draco said quietly, his voice low, challenging.

Harry had expected nothing less, especially now that Draco would be a permanent plague to his existence.

With that, and a final glare thrown in for good measure, Draco stepped back and made to leave, his robes billowing around him with such a slight, simple movement. He offered Harry a final sneer, more of a smirk, and called out, "See you at _home, _Potter."

Harry's eyes lingered on the end of the corridor as Draco disappeared. He thought of how Draco didn't know where their quarters were and imagined him wandering the castle aimlessly—he felt nothing at the mental image and knew that it was unlikely to happen anyway. He couldn't see Draco wandering aimlessly. If there was one thing Harry had learned over the years, when Draco did something, it was deliberate.

Mr. Muller stepped in front of Harry, breaking his gaze and drawing his attention forward.

"Home?" he questioned lightly, his condescending smile gone. "I thought you were rooming with another Gryffindor."

Mr. Muller may not have known Draco personally, but he had known his father—and there was certainly no way that that boy had managed to make it into Gryffindor.

"The Headmistress changed it," Harry replied simply, unsure of what else to say. Professor McGonagall had agreed to keep their little incident between the three of them—four, really, if he included Ron—but Harry doubted Mr. Muller was that oblivious. There had been a very telling bruise across Draco's jaw, as well as a few scratch marks, and Harry sported a few battle wounds of his own.

"I see," said Mr. Muller. He had a sort of knowing glint in his eyes and Harry was quick to advert his gaze. "And why would she do that?"

Harry swallowed. He had never been particularly good at thinking on his feet—not in this way, anyway. Throw him into a dark dungeon with a man-eating monster and he could probably hold his own, if only because of luck—but sit him down and give him twenty questions and he would no doubt trip and fall, catching on his words before they even left his mouth.

He licked his lips, staring at the floor.

"Learning experience?"

It was supposed to be an answer, not a question, but it appeared to placate Mr. Muller nonetheless, for he offered Harry a sickly sweet smile.

"Good," Mr. Muller said with a bit of a nod. Harry glanced up. "I think it's a brilliant idea; you have trouble coping, Mr. Potter, and with that inability, you have trouble moving on. It's about time you realize that the war has come to an end, and with it, narrow-minded assumptions. Rebuilding our world will take an abundance of healing, forgiveness, and most certainly, second chances. I suggest manning that bridge before the river below it devours you. This Malfoy fellow is at Hogwarts for a reason—innocence—and I do hope you can remember that."

Harry glowered.

Encountering Voldemort seven times and finally defeating him should surely be enough to show that he realized the war ended—Hell, he was part of the reason it _had _ended. Who was this man to challenge that, to imply that Harry was set in his ways and living in a bloodied past? Who was he to lecture on forgiveness and second chances when Harry had encountered more evil in his life than that man in his nightmares?

"Sometimes," Mr. Muller continued, "self-forgiveness starts with the forgiveness of others."

Harry's mouth puckered into a scowl and the words came of their own accord.

"And how are you supposed to forgive others when you can't forgive yourself?"

Mr. Muller smiled again, flashing white teeth, and Harry cringed.

"I do believe this is a conversation best continued in private."

He waved a hand in the direction of Professor McGonagall's statue and muttered the password (refuge) before motioning for Harry to enter.

X

Shortly after their session started, Harry embraced the dull throbbing in his stomach. He curled himself around it and lived in its hollow, the emptiness blanketing him with its familiarity, and nearly an hour later, he was being lead to his quarters. Professor McGonagall allowed the walk to be completed in silence and when they came to his portrait hole, Draco was leaning casually against the nearby wall.

Harry brushed by him without a word and said, "Avalon."

The portrait, a knight with heavy, rusted armor, offered him a slow salute and sprung open. Professor McGonagall called out to him and said something he didn't quite care to hear—so he didn't—and then Draco was stepping in after him, the portrait hole swinging shut and leaving them to their own devices.

Harry felt himself tense as it shut and he turned, fully-expecting Draco to confront him again.

He felt little relief as the other brushed past him, deliberately jamming his shoulder into Harry's, and into the bathroom.

Draco shut the door, hard, and Harry stared at it for a long moment before settling down into his bed. _Finally, _he thought, burying his face in his pillow, his glasses sticking against his skin. He could feel the throbbing increase—he could feel it press against his lungs and muffle his heart. He let out a slow, shuddering breath, and tried not to think of the day that had passed.

Finally, _finally, _it was coming to an end and, confrontation or not—Draco or not—Harry was determined to enjoy his solitude, no matter how brief it was.


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: **First and foremost, I would like to extend a warm, big thank-you to everyone that reviewed. I want to apologize, again, for my whining in my last chapter. I'm slightly embarrassed by it, but, that doesn't make what I said any less true. I do need the encouragement. Just look at my track record and you can clearly see that. And yes, even then, it may not be enough, but it's certainly worth a shot, eh?

Please, _please _continue to review! I actually gained quite a few ideas from what everyone said and I hope that this chapter explains a bit more. In case it doesn't, I would like to point something out—this is AU. It doesn't follow the books in their entirety. Err, rather, it follows them up until book six. And then things get a bit selective, and hopefully, I'll be able to explain that a bit more and weed out those details for you. If anyone has any questions, feel free to PM me, or of course, leave a review.

Secondly, this chapter is kind of dark. Let me repeat that: this chapter is _dark. _D-a-r-k. Yes. That. And because of that, I've decided to up the rating. Just an FYI, because I'm fairly certain it will get a lot darker before the light rises.

Again, **please review!**

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. To Chicago is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

&**.Chapter 9**

X

_..such information is best reserved for our dark corners.  
So I lock the bathroom door and started forgetting my name;  
I annihilated all my pride to usher in my shame._

_For all my could have's and my used to be's..  
(and the darkness inside me).  
For all my could-haves and my used-to-be's...  
(and the dark consists of me).  
You'd think that I'd have found myself some new beliefs..  
(in every hopeless tragedy).  
For all my should haves and my hoped to be's..  
(hoped to be's)._

/ / To Chicago by The Spill Canvas

Hands on either side of the sink, he stared at his reflection in the mirror, tracing the dark bruise marring his jaw with his eyes. His hair fell to frame his face in silver wisps, casting shadows and highlighting his features, emphasizing the thin, hair-line scar that ran across his cheek. It was barely visible now, but he thought of that night, of the spoken curse and the sharp breath that followed. He thought of the betrayal and the pain. He had been broken, then, a pathetic puddle of blood and tears on the bathroom floor.

Draco pushed himself back and away from the sink with an irritated huff.

He couldn't afford to break anymore—again, rather—not now.

He had always been an angry sort of person. His anger had been encouraged and he turned to it now. His anger made him strong, which he needed to be, if not for himself but for his legacy and his parents. Unfortunately, today had been a trying day. He thought of that night again, the night that he had let himself slip and Harry had witnessed him breaking. Harry had pushed him further, then, and Draco thought it only fair he did the same. There was that part of him that wanted nothing more than to turn away from his anger, his unhappiness, that small part of him that pressed to the point of breaking again, but he wouldn't allow it. He couldn't. Nothing was at stake, and yet, everything was, too.

Draco paced the short length of the bathroom in deliberate strides, his eyes downcast.

He could hear Harry shift from the other side of the door and his anger intensified.

More memories, unwanted, flooded his mind. Thoughts and images of his mother, her death, her murderer—his father's trial with the Wizengamot, publicly broadcast and plastered on the front of the Prophet. He thought of his failure, of how much could have been avoided if he had been strong then, too, and had managed to do as told. If he had managed to kill Dumbledore himself, surely things would have been different? His mother would be alive, at least, fluttering hands and tense smiles. There was a knot in his stomach, then, twisting and tying itself around his lungs. It was growing increasingly difficult to breathe but he managed. He forced through it, his breaths slow but deliberate. His lungs ached with each inhale or exhale and he closed his eyes with the shuddering realization that it was his fault.

Most days, he had come to term with this.

Most days, his acceptance came as easy as his anger.

Most days.

But most days weren't good enough.

Draco stilled in the center of the room, his hands absently, almost nervously, smoothing his trousers. He struggled to keep himself upright and the rise and fall of his chest even.

To add to his mood, he was _here, _stuck in this predicament with _Potter. _He tried hard to forget his failure. It was easy enough—he had had enough practice. He shifted the blame and thought of Harry.

If Harry had just _died _when he was a bloody baby, his parents would have never left him. If he had just killed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in their first year of Hogwarts, Draco would never have met the mad man. If he had succeeded in second year, he would never have heard his father's screams as he was finally broken, reprimanded for his failure. If Harry had managed it in their third year, he never would have had to deal with that sniveling, disgusting _rat, _Pettigrew. If it had been done their fourth year, Draco never would have disappointed his father so. Fifth year—he never would have been pressured into following his father's footsteps. Before their sixth year had ended—he would never have had to watch that _dog _tear his mother apart while she was still alive and conscious. He wouldn't hear her screams when he was alone, without his anger, or see her eyes, blank, bloodied and accusing, when ever he closed his own.

It was Harry's fault. It was _always _Harry's fault and, with a final, deliberate breath, Draco thought it time he reminded him of that.

X

Harry was breaking.

Draco could sense it the very moment he stepped foot into their quarters. It was palpable, suffocating, his sadness filling the room and reaching out to meet Draco's anger. He could hear Harry's ragged breathing, see his shoulders shaking and almost taste his despair. He lingered in the doorway, still, watching—Harry shifted where he lay, his face heating as he became aware of Draco's presence. Tears ran hot against his face, angry and betraying, and he pressed his face further into his pillow, regretting not closing his drapes. His fingers twisted at his bed, pulled and clawed, and his breaths came in hard hiccups.

Finally, Draco moved forward, turning his back to Harry and allowing his eyes to sweep the room. It was mostly gold and silver with bits of red and green scattered about, such as the duvets covering their respective beds. The bathroom door had looked across the length of the room; there were two beds, obviously, separated by a liberal amount of space and an ornate rug. Across from their beds was a fire place, nestled in front of a single couch. A small table lined either wall, a desk of sorts, and on one either side of the room was a banner for their respective houses. It was a common room and a dormitory combined and Draco vaguely wondered what the room's purpose had been before.

He neared his bed.

"Stop whining, Potter," he bit out, eying what used to be the _Weasel's _bed with disgust. "It's pathetic."

Harry's shoulders tensed but it became easier to ignore the hollow spot in his chest. He focused on Draco's voice, letting it fill him up and flood him with anger.

"Go to Hell, Malfoy," said Harry, his voice muffled and cracked. He sat up to glare at Draco through crooked glasses and red-rimmed eyes. A small part of him was grateful to have Draco there with his sarcasm and cold malice. It was easier to deal with, much easier than Ron's awkward shoulder pats and strained, pitying eyes. He watched as Draco withdrew his wand and he tensed a bit, hardly relaxing when the other simply spelled his bed clean and then tucked it away. He watched as he sat down and turned, facing him.

Draco met Harry's heated glare with a cold one of his own. He recognized Harry's anger, his raw emotion, and he smirked, "Oh—_there_ he is. Decide to join the land of the living again, eh, Potter?"

Harry let out an uncontrolled, gasping breath, and he gritted his teeth. Draco was referring to his emptiness, his sadness, and Harry could feel the judgment radiating off of him in waves.

"Sod off," he muttered.

Both of Draco's eyebrows darted up in mock-shock and he shifted, leaning back onto the palms of his hands.

"I will once you stop being such a pansy," he replied simply, his voice flat.

There it was again: judgment. Harry's eyes narrowed and he grabbed a fistful of his duvet, squeezing.

"Fuck you, Malfoy—you don't know what it's like."

Harry practically growled the words and Draco cocked his head, his forehead smoothing. Harry was breaking, much like Draco had those months ago, and Draco thought it best to give him another shove. Harry was so _vain—_did he really think he was the only one suffering? Draco's mouth curled into a sneer at his ignorance and he replied, "Get _over _yourself, Potter. You're not the only one that's lost people."

Harry snorted, taking his glasses off and wiping furiously at his eyes. He knew he wasn't the only one that had lost people. That knowledge hurt more than anything else, his own loss included. Hundreds, thousands of people—millions, perhaps—had put their faith in a failure and it had cost many their lives, or the lives of their loved ones. It was his fault and the cost of his failure weighed heavily on his shoulders, pushing him down to the ground. His anger wavered for but a moment and his words were sad.

"I never said I was, Malfoy. I leave selfish thoughts like that to you."

Draco's eyes hardened.

"Because you're such a _saint,_" he scoffed, his words dripping with sarcasm. It was obvious that Harry was too self-involved to move past his own suffering and acknowledge another person's. That much had been proven when he had cursed Draco, broken him further than Draco had broken himself. Some savior.

"That's rich," Harry sniffed, shaking his head, "coming from the git who walks around as if he's _better _than everyone else."

Draco's glare intensified.

"Says the boy-wonder."

"Get _off _it," Harry bit out, his voice a bit louder than necessary. He gave Draco a humoring grin. It was twisted, distorted by his tear-stained face and red eyes, and its patronization was thick. "You thin you have it _so rough, _don't you, Malfoy?"

He arched a single eyebrow, smirking.

"I should say the same, Potter—may I kindly suggest taking your head out of your arse?"

Harry shook his head again, squeezing the duvet and then letting it go entirely. Back and fourth, back and fourth—it was clear that Draco thought exactly the same thing about Harry that Harry thought of him. He was tired of their little dance, his anger running hot through his veins, and he pushed himself from his bed.

"Go to Hell, Malfoy," he glowered.

Draco's face became expressionless again, cold, and he said, "You first, Potter."

Harry nearly smiled.

"Already there, thanks."

Draco raised both eyebrows again.

"We'll see about that."

They stared at each other, silently challenging one another until Harry averted his eyes. He exhaled sharply, his self-pity creeping up through his anger. A small voice recited the side-effects to the potions he was taking—_increased depression, mild to severe mood swings, stomach cramps, and head aches—_and Harry fled to the bathroom, sick to his stomach.

X

Two hours had passed and Harry was still in the bathroom.

There had been little sound. A yell here and there, a loud, broken sob—and as his anger faded into a sort of twisted curiosity, Draco decided to investigate. He briefly entertained the idea that Harry had finally finished himself and that, should Draco enter, he would find Harry dead, head submerged in the toilet, or something else completely Gryffindor and completely absurd. Walking over to the bathroom in a few long strides, Draco wrapped his knuckles lightly against the mahogany. Silence answered and he knocked again, his patience wearing thin. There was a soft click as the door came ajar and he edged it open slowly, quietly, his eyes flashing as he surveyed the mess before him.

That was a bit of an understatement, really.

Harry wasn't a mess—he was a disaster.

Harry was sitting on the small bathroom counter, much to Draco's disapproval, with his back crammed against the stone wall. He was hunched over, his hair disheveled (it appeared to stick up even more than usual, if that were possible—which, in Draco's opinion, it wasn't), and he had a sort of primal, wild look about him. There was something small clutched firmly in his hand and he was dragging it carefully across the length of his left forearm. It caught the light, a bright spot grazing Draco's feet before disappearing completely as Harry shifted. He was smiling, although however slight, and his grin reminded Draco of that night—that look he had been given just before Harry had made an attempt for the window.

For the first time, Harry Potter fit his description.

He looked as mad as he acted.

Harry was completely oblivious to Draco's presence. He was too focused on the task at hand, the weight of the glass between his fingers and its edge against his skin.

For the better part of the last two hours, Harry had simply sat in the bathroom, crammed in one of its corners with his knees drawn to his chest. His head had rest against his knees and he had tried forcing himself into a temporary oblivion by clearing his thoughts—but then there was something inside of him screaming, telling him he was a coward, taunting him for his weakness. It forced memory upon memory upon him—he sat, thunderstruck, as the faces of the dead haunted him, Death sharing its burden for him to shoulder. He had heard their screams and, with an almost feral scream of his own, had moved from the corner and to the counter.

He had sought refuge in his pain and the voices murmured their approval.

Draco slipped into the bathroom, shifting his weight so that his movement was barely audible.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't report you," he sneered, drawing Harry's attention away from his arm and announcing his presence. Harry hardly even flinched and his eyes just barely met Draco's. He was fidgeting, his eyes moving rapidly, unable to focus on one spot.

"You'd miss me," Harry replied offhandedly. He looked back down at his arm. He made another cut, a slow, deliberate strike against his forearm the width of a hair, smiling wider as blood stained his skin. He could hear whispers in his head, quiet encouragement, and he knew he was pathetic. It was so much easier if he embraced it.

Harry wasn't implying that Draco cared—far from it. He had decided to call him out, make it known that he was very aware of how much pleasure Draco derived from tormenting him.

"Hardly," Draco replied, and with a bit of an edge, "I was thinking—blackmail?"

Harry's smile widened, darkened, and Draco tensed a bit, watching for any abrupt movement.

"That implies I care," Harry muttered, glancing up.

His eyes met Draco's briefly.

He made another incision across his arm, sloppy but slow, holding Draco's gaze all the while.

There was a silent challenge, a question asked and unanswered, and then he averted his eyes, looking back down at his arm. He longed for oblivion, sweet and dark, and he muttered, "I'm tired of caring."

It was true. He was tired of caring about life—the past, the present, the future—all of it.

He had fulfilled his purpose and had been denied his happy ending. What was the point in fighting fate?

Draco raised an eyebrow, surveying the boy in front of him. He silently sought out his anger but, strangely enough, none answered. It had worked. Harry sat in front of him, broken and bleeding. It wasn't just by Draco's hand, but by his own. He had realized what Draco had long ago accepted; when it came down to it, there was no wrong or right. There was no past, no future. There was simply that moment, suspended in time—and even that didn't matter. Nothing mattered, really, least of all him—them.

And yet they were expected to live through it anyway.

He had an almost overwhelming urge to reach out, then, and touch Harry. _Hurt _Harry—and maybe even himself. He wanted to show that he understood, that they were both alone and angry, but together in their bitter loneliness. He wanted to cause Harry as much pain as he was causing himself and, Hell, maybe even hitch a ride.

So, Draco did the only thing logical.

Without sparing Harry another glance, he turned.

And he left.

X

The rest of the evening passed in a strange sort of silence. It wasn't comfortable, by any means, but it was different than before; the air was charged with knowledge, forbidden truth that neither dare utter. Both boys avoided each other as much as possible, barely sparing the other a glance. What looks did pass were done in private, behind the other person's back or when they weren't paying attention.

Draco was hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously, and Harry showered before bed.

They pretended that nothing had changed when, in reality, everything had. Their world had shifted, no matter how subtly, and both boys were wrestling for their footing.

Shortly after Harry showered, Draco did. While Draco was in the bathroom, Harry opened his trunk and found his potions. The elves had moved them, evidently, out of Draco's sight, and Harry fingered one of the vials absently before closing his trunk and readying for bed. He felt better, in a way, after his break down. The emptiness had returned, cocooning him in its embrace and stroking his heart. It was easier to breathe, but he was tired, drained from his high.

He was drawing the crimson curtains around his bed closed when Draco entered their room again, his hair sticking to him in a light waterfall. Harry's eyes swept across his body, catching on his bare abdomen. There, highlighted by the fire, was a silver-white scar, running across his chest and to his face. It was tinted pink from the warm water and Harry traced it, meeting his eyes. He swallowed, hard, the memory sweeping across him in a rush.

They stared at each other for a long moment, expressionless, before Draco's mouth twisted into a smirk.

He stirred, nearing his own bed, and Harry's eyes followed.

Draco crouched down before his bed, in front of his trunk, and muttered something Harry couldn't hear. Harry caught the flicker of movement as the lock untwisted itself, turning into an emblem—a snake with a jeweled eye—and Draco pressed his thumb to it. There was a slight clicking noiseand the trunk opened itself. When Draco pulled his hand away, there was a small, barely-visible droplet of blood. He looked to Harry again, still smirking, and pressed his thumb to his mouth, drawing the blood from his finger and to his lips.

Harry quickly averted his eyes, his face flushing.

Draco's smirk widened and he withdrew a vial from his trunk. Harry's eyes were drawn to him again at the rustle of movement, and he watched, quiet, as Draco uncorked the potion. It was iridescent, a pale green pearl, and he downed it without flinching, setting the empty vial back into his trunk and closing the lid. Harry's eyebrows twitched, furrowing slightly, but he knew better than to ask. Draco climbed into his bed, which stirred Harry from his stupor. He moved, finally, drawing his own curtains and burying himself under his duvet. The fire extinguished itself. Minutes passed, excruciatingly slow, before Harry fell into an uneven sleep.

At first, he dreamed of silver, red-rimmed eyes and a bloodied floor.

Soon, though, things changed.

Unwanted memories played through his head, flickering images of what had been. He felt the tug of a portkey as he was carried away from Hogwarts. Twisted branches scratched his skin as he was unceremoniously deposited onto the ground, a mess of bruises and tangled limbs. His scar throbbed, his vision blurring under its ferocity. It was dark, bits of light barely filtering through the thick canopy overhead, and there was an eerie silence, a sort of quiet that buzzed. He was aware of what would happen—a foresight that hadn't existed the day of—and he pushed himself from the ground, stumbling blindly through the trees, desperate to find his mark. He wanted to run the other way, run as far and as quickly away as he could, but his legs moved on their own. He unwillingly retraced his steps.

Voldemort was waiting for him.

Just past the tree line and down a low-sloping valley, there were dozens of death eaters amongst a field of sunflowers. At the peak of a hill, Voldemort stood, his cloak billowing in the sunlight.

Each death eater raised their wand and there was a blast of light—sound—and Harry's knees buckled as screams filled the air. He could feel their pain, hot and throbbing, coursing through every vein and making every fiber of his being hurt. They begged for death and Harry's eyes flashed as he tried fighting against it with strength they no longer had. Something dull and hard stabbed at his shoulder—he pushed against it, raising his eyes to meet Voldemort's. His face was much closer than it should be, considering the distance, and something stabbed at Harry's shoulder again. Voldemort's mouth opened and—

"Potter! _Potter._."

He awoke with a gasping breath, sitting up and scampering across the bed to grab his wand. His back was flush with his bed's frame and he struggled to raise it, green eyes catching on gray. Panic gripped at his heart before the day's events came trudging back, slow and blurred from grogginess.

"You were screaming," Draco said carefully. Harry noticed that he was bending over the edge of his bed, his wand illuminating his pointed features and darkening the bruise on his jaw as he shifted his weight. He frowned and scooted a bit further away.

"Sorry," he managed, his face flushing.

He felt weak and exposed and he could only imagine how Draco would later use this against him. The incident in the bathroom hadn't embarrassed him nearly as much as this, and before he could think that strange, he averted his gaze. There was a long moment of silence, Draco's eyes tracing his face, surveying the emotion it wore. It must have been late and Draco must have been sleeping soundly, unable to shake the grogginess from his mind, because Harry next heard, "Are you..." There was hesitance, as if he were spitting out something foul, and then, ".._okay?_"

Harry's forehead wrinkled in confusion but he kept his eyes firmly on the shadows playing against his canopy.

He managed a shrug.

"Fine," Harry muttered, the word forced.

Draco nodded shortly and straightened. He hesitated at the edge of Harry's bed and Harry barely relaxed. His eyes continued to watch the shadows from Draco's wand, as if ignoring him would simply make him disappear, vanish into thin air, but Draco's voice cut through their room once more. It was low, barely above a whisper, and Harry wasn't entirely sure he had heard it right.

"Does it happen often?"

He wondered if he was still dreaming, caught in some twisted alternate universe. He shrugged again, swallowing hard.

"Every night."

Draco nodded again.

"Right," he said carefully, stepping away from him and toward his bed. Harry didn't look. He could hear the mattress shift as Draco climbed under his blankets and the light faded. A bit louder now, "Well, then. Proceed."

Harry scoffed at the words and then Draco was muttering a spell. He turned, paranoid, his eyes lingering on Draco's canopy as it glowed a faint blue and then darkened, the light extinguishing.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked quietly, his heart quickening a bit. There was no response and Harry repeated it a bit louder.

Silence answered, buzzing silence with a taste of magic, and Harry realized he had cast a silencing charm. With a slight, confused smile, Harry slipped back into his bed and shrugged his blankets over his body.

He wondered how late it was again and if he were dreaming.


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N: **First and foremost, thank you all for the wonderful reviews. I was absolutely floored by how many I've received since my last chapter. The encouragement does wonders and, although some updates may be a bit slower than others, I'm trying desperately to work through my writer's block or what ever else my lack of motivation throws at me because I don't want to disappoint you all.

Speaking of, that brings me to my second point. I love fanfiction. I love writing, and I love that I have readers that want more—but, I certainly hope that you all can understand that I do have a life. Aside from this story, I have a job, friends (real or virtual) and things or events or feelings that will occasionally call me away. Trust me, I'm trying not to let this story fall to the wayside. Some chapters will be harder to write than others, though, and some may take longer to be posted. This chapter was particularly hard for me. During part of it I came down with a bout of writer's block and turned to a rather distracting roleplay. I think part of the reason I sought out that escape was because this story is becoming increasingly off-plot, as are my characters, and I'm struggling with the idea that I need to change my original vision.

Hopefully the length of this chapter makes up for some of the delay?

Either way, please bear with me—hopefully the struggle will end soon, and please, as always, review. 3

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Miracles or Medicine? is property of Cauterize, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

&**.Chapter 10**

X

_Who will find us here,  
all alone, my dear?  
The angels or the ambulance?  
Which will save us now?  
All the pills we've downed—  
miracles or medicine?_

/ / Miracles or Medicine? by Cauterize.

X

His heart was heavy.

It was yet another day that was going by much too slowly for his liking. As he went through the motions, he struggled against the weight in his chest, desperately trying to keep his feet planted firmly beneath him and his eyes to the front. It was hard to focus on anything but the night before. Sporadically throughout the day, he would think of glass, of broken skin, and his arm itched in anticipation—and then he would think of a wet floor, of dizzying designs in the water, of bloodied-hair, and his face would flush. He had thought of that night little since it happened but now that he had he couldn't seem to rid himself of the memory. It made his stomach flip and the anger twitch. There was something different about his anger, that day—it felt lighter, more pleasant, perhaps. Harry could sense himself stepping across a bridge that wasn't meant to exist, teetering precariously on the edge of sanity and something else, something darker and twisted, and his face would flush a deeper red.

Through the anger and the heaviness, whispers would come in waves. When they came they were but a blur of sound in the back of his mind. He could rarely comprehend the words, aware of nothing but noise and the raw emotion accompanying it. It reminded him vaguely of second year and the basilisk and its familiarity was unnerving.

He walked with through Hermione through abandoned corridors, nodding occasionally as he listened to her chatter about Advanced Magic. She was leading him through the less traveled corridors to his Potions class, to Draco, guiding him away from prying eyes and unnecessary questions. It was there that it happened. The voices returned, clearer than before, and the muffled nonsense separated itself into words.

He whispered them aloud, the bridge swaying drastically beneath his feet.

"The unicorn hair has broken."

He startled Hermione from her one-sided conversation and she gave him a questioning side-glance, surveying his face.

"Excuse me?"

Harry stopped walking and she followed suit, turning to face him. He was looking directly at her and yet his eyes seemed unfocused.

"The unicorn hair has broken," he repeated, his voice a bit louder. His mouth twisted into an unwanted smile, dark and empty, and he edged closer. Hermione searched his face.

"What are you talking about, Harry?"

He clenched his jaw, his smile becoming strained. His anger was apparent, written across his face and bright in his eyes.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he muttered, "_mudblood._"

Hermione's heart moved into her throat and she gasped, betrayal shooting through her chest. Her forehead puckered and she took a quick step back as Harry moved forward. Her voice betrayed her when she spoke, her words breathless and shocked: "Wh—what did you just call me?"

Dark eyebrows darted up and he stepped closer, backing her against the nearby wall.

"Mudblood," he repeated, more of an accusation than an answer.

Hermione worried her bottom lip, struggling to keep her composure. This was Harry, her friend, and he was harmless—slightly bonkers, but harmless—and she took a deep breath, reaching out to touch his arm.

"Are you—are you okay, Harry?"

Harry withdrew from her touch, his eyes flashing.

"Don't _touch _me," he sneered.

Hermione quickly recoiled, her hand retracting and tucking against her chest. Her other hand moved to her robes pocket, searching for her wand and brushing the reassuring wood with her fingertips. There was a tightness about Harry, a shift in the air around him that frightened her. Her heart quickened in her chest as he leaned forward, placing his palms flat against the wall along either side of her head, practically pinning her between his body and the stone. He was staring directly at her but he resembled little of her friend. His pupils were dilated, making his eyes darker, and there was a certain glint, a madness that she couldn't recognize.

She tried swallowing against the knot in her chest.

"Harry—just, _please, _what are you doing?"

Her voice cracked pathetically and she tensed beneath his stare.

"What's wrong, _whore?_"

His voice was low and hard, more a growl than anything else, and he leaned in, his nose brushing against her cheek as his breath ghosted her face. Hermione's fingers wrapped around her wand and she set her jaw.

"Please, Harry—you're scaring me."

His breath was hot against her ear.

"_Good._"

She let out a slow, shuddering breath, and before she could reply, there was a familiar drawl, startling Harry and drawing his attention away from her. He turned, his eyes on the intruder as the person said, "Well, well, well—what _do _we have here?"

Draco smirked at the familiar words, nearing the pair as he surveyed the scene.

Hermione pressed her lips together, her breathing uneven. For the first time ever, relief flooded through her at the sight of Draco; Harry pushed himself away from the wall and swayed unevenly before stepping toward him, leaving her to cower against the wall in confusion. Her eyes on Draco, she shuffled away, moving so that she was standing in the center of the corridor behind Harry, her wand now withdrawn. Her relief faded and she eyed Draco warily.

Draco's eyes held Hermione's for but a moment before slipping away and to Harry.

"A coward," Harry replied, his words echoing the voice in his head. Its control was fading—he was becoming more and more aware of his surroundings again, but he was groggy, as if waking from a deep sleep.

Both of Draco's eyebrows shot up and his smirk shifted into a sneer. He stepped closer to Harry, eyes narrowed.

"Watch who you're calling _what, _Potter," he muttered, voice low. There was something different about Harry—he could see that in his expression, his demeanor. There was a subtle change and he didn't see the usual emptiness but instead something else reflected in his eyes, twisted and dark. Draco was overwhelmed with the urge that he had denied the night before—the urge to reach out and hurt Harry—but it was slightly different. He didn't just want to hurt Harry but to reach out and push him as he had been pushed. Unlike the night before, he didn't bother resisting; he pressed both hands evenly against his chest, shoving him back, and as his hands made contact, Harry stumbled, his expression abruptly changing.

"Malfoy?" he practically gasped, clearly surprised. His eyes narrowed at Draco's raised hands and he stepped further away from him, refusing to raise to what ever bait Draco had provided. He wouldn't be lectured by the Headmistress—not again—and just look at what his consequences were for the last time. He looked around, struggling to remember what he had been doing last and finally asked, "Where's Hermione?"

"Right here," Hermione quietly called from behind him. Her voice was more of a squeak than anything, still gripped by confusion and fear, and Harry turned around. His forehead wrinkled at her flushed face and she wouldn't quite meet his eyes, instead staring past him and at the wall. "I.. think I'll be going, though."

Harry opened his mouth to ask if she was okay but she interrupted, managing a strained smile and forcing her eyes to briefly flicker to his.

"Just—stay with Malfoy, okay, Harry?"

She quickly averted her gaze again and nodded once, muttering a goodbye to his counterpart, and then turned, hurrying down and around the corridor's bend. Harry's eyes lingered on the spot she disappeared to, his stomach flipping. Something had happened—he knew it. Draco snickered behind him and his entire body tensed, becoming taunt, and he turned to face him.

"What?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes.

Both of Draco's eyebrows darted up for but a moment before his forehead smoothed. He gave Harry a broad smirk, shaking his head.

"Nothing, Potter," he drawled, his eyes light as they met Harry's.

Harry's eyes narrowed even further, into slits, and he clenched his jaw.

What ever had happened, it was clear that Draco enjoyed knowing something he didn't.

"Something happened, Malfoy—tell me what."

He didn't think Draco would give in so easily and was proven right as he was offered a casual, effortless shrug and a smug, "You're just off your rocker—that's all. Now, let's go. I'm not going to be late to Potions because of the likes of _you._"

Harry's glare intensified.

"Go to Hell, Malfoy," he muttered darkly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Draco smirked again, echoing their conversation from the night before.

"You first."

The corner of Harry's mouth twitched and, as they started down the corridor, he said, "Well, we _are _going to Potions."

X

After a short-lived attempt at homework, Harry retreated to the privacy of their bathroom, shutting the door and practically collapsing against it. He slid down its length and to the floor, his arms wrapping around his abdomen to hold his sadness in.

Ron and Hermione had distanced themselves.

Hermione had separated herself from him by sandwiching Ron, Ginny, and Neville between their seats at dinner, and even Ron appeared uncomfortable. He shifted awkwardly beside him and muttered quietly to Neville instead of ranting about Quidditch or class. Harry was certain that it had something to do with the incident in that dimly-lit corridor to Potion's class but both Hermione and Ron had dodged his questions and Draco simply smirked. Harry stared at the floor for a long while, a whirl-wind of emotions, tracing light spilling onto the stone with his eyes. First was sadness and confusion, then anger, and finally, sudden and abrupt emptiness.

He was unsure of how much time had passed before he found the strength to rise from the floor and slip quietly from the bathroom to collect his toiletries and ready himself for bed.

X

Attempting to smooth his damp hair, Harry's eyes caught on a vial nestled against his pillow. He neared his bed, surveying it. Secured with a thin, black ribbon was a note that read "Dreamless Sleep Potion" in an elegant scrawl. He slipped the vial into his hand; it was light, warm to the touch, and the firelight made its contents swirl. It was an iridescent, pale green pearl, and as Harry's eyes followed its murky design, he recognized it as the potion Draco had taken the night before. He turned, searching. He stared at Draco's bed, its canopy closed to shield its inhabitant. With his recognition came a realization, startling but certain—Draco had nightmares, too. Harry's eyes traced the lines in his curtains and wondered: what were Draco's nightmares about? Harry's own were usually about the war. A great deal of his nightmares consisted of pain—not necessarily his own—and the sounds of helpless people screaming, the sounds of their last breath, gurgling, hot and loud. He wondered if Draco's nightmares were anything like his own or if he dreamed of their current reality—both his parents and Voldemort gone, leaving him alone and without a compass or guide. Surely this must be his worse nightmare—Harry alive and Voldemort dead and the light overcoming the darkness.

A part of him was amused by that idea and another had an idea of its own: Draco had suffered, too.

He had heard the rumors about his mother. She had died shortly after Draco fled from the Astronomy tower, shortly after Dumbledore had died—right before his funeral, if Harry remembered correctly. No one knew for sure—no one but her family and Harry doubted Draco would ever share that information—but it was speculated nonetheless. Her body was never found, however, leading to other rumors, too—that she had gone mad, much like Harry, and was currently on the run as her husband rotted away in Azkaban.

Harry had always imagined that Draco was close to his family. He was too spoiled not to be and it lead him to wonder if that was what Draco's nightmares were about—a world without them.

Either way, the idea comforted him.

Turning back to his own bed, Harry looked back at the vial in his hand.

He was unsure if he should trust it. Draco had no doubt purchased or brewed it and could Draco really be trusted?

He thought of the possible outcomes. It could be what it was labeled and nothing more—or it could be laced with poison. It could also be something more sinister entirely and cause Harry to awake with a strange rash, five arms, bloodied vomit, and a tail the next morning. He pursed his lips into a thin line. That would be too obvious. It would be connected to him too quickly, Harry thought, and he doubted Draco eager to join his father or anything of that sort.

His eyelids were heavy, eager for but frightened of sleep, and Harry uncorked the vial before he could reassess his options. He tossed it back, slightly surprised at its feel and flavor; despite the potion's apparent warmth, it was cool against his tongue, refreshing, and had an after flavor of mint. He stirred, setting the empty vial on top of his trunk, and stretched a bit before crawling into his own bed and drawing the duvet over him. He pulled his curtains closed and, once more, the fire extinguished itself.

Within minutes, Harry's breathing slowed and evened, darkness greeting him—whole, wonderfully black darkness and nothing more.

X

Draco awoke to screaming.

His heart in his throat, he blinked through the darkness, his ears straining through the sudden silence. There was a sharp, audible gasp and then another scream, pained and feral. It wasn't him, then. Good. Grabbing his wand from beneath his pillow, he shrugged the blankets from his body and slipped from his bed. The floor was cool beneath his feet; the cold ran up his legs and into his chest, nestling itself against his lungs and causing him to shiver. The small hairs on his neck and arms stood at attention, goosebumps covering his stomach and chest even beneath his night-shirt. The scar running across the length of abdomen tingled at the sudden temperature change, as it was prone to do, and Draco rubbed at it, muttering a soft _lumos _as he focused on Harry's bed. The curtains swayed around it, gently and then quicker as another scream cut through the air. He parted them easily, his forehead wrinkling at the sight that greeted him.

Harry's blankets were tangled around him, twisted around his limbs as constraints, and his face was contorted into a look of sheer, raw pain. This was different than the night before when Harry had simply screamed and twitched, whimpering between breaths, and Draco's gut told him that something was wrong, very wrong, and he moved forward. A tremor racked through Harry's body and he gasped, a strangled, unpleasant noise erupting from his mouth—a mixture of a whimper and a scream—and Draco pressed his hand against Harry's shoulder.

His clothes were damp, clinging to his body because of sweat, and he was hot to the touch.

Draco frowned.

"Potter," he said loudly, shaking him a bit.

Harry's features flinched, cringing, and he trembled again, panting.

"Potter," he repeated loudly. When there was no change he finally yelled, "Harry!"

His own yell went unheard as Harry screamed again, thrashing under the weight of Draco's touch. Harry's hands moved to his forehead, his fingers digging frantically at his scar. Draco dropped to the edge of Harry's bed, depositing his wand in his lap, and tried to pry Harry's hands away from his face. He managed, although barely—Harry was considerably stronger than Draco would have ever admitted—and he yelled again.

Harry continued to struggle and Draco thought of slapping him awake.

Instead, Draco tried clamping one hand around both of his wrist's to grab his wand. He pointed it at Harry's head and tried to keep it steady as Harry thrashed again, pulling out of Draco's grasp. His hands moved to the bed, gripping and clawing at the sheets as his body thrashed, lifting itself from and then throwing itself back down to the mattress. Draco tried waking Harry again but there was no change—and then there was nothing.

Harry abruptly stilled, deflating against the bed, and his expression smoothed.

Draco's stomach flipped, panic gripping his lungs.

He touched his fingers to Harry's neck, his eyes moving to his chest.

It was still.

And Draco was unable to feel his pulse.

He thought quickly. There was no floo network in their room. Screaming for help would be of no help. By the time someone heard and came rushing to their aid, it would be too late. So, instead of seeking help, Draco followed his gut, acting on sheer adrenaline and impulse; he shook Harry again, his hand coming down, hard, against Harry's chest. Sensing Draco's need, the fire roared to life and his wand extinguished itself. He touched the tip of his wand to Harry's temple and said, "_Expergiscendum!"_

He pressed his other hand against Harry's chest again and applied a liberal amount of pressure—once, twice, three times, and then there was a sweet gasping noise as Harry sprung to life. He was a rush of movement, twisting where he lay to free himself from his blankets and clinging to Draco as the burning in his lungs and eyes increased. Hot tears slipped through his eyelashes and down his face and he clung to Draco much like he did, unknown, those nights ago. A strange sort of irritated relief washed across Draco as Harry pressed his warm, wet face to his stomach, his breaths coming out in shuddering, hiccuping gasps. Draco cringed, quickly regaining his composure, and his words came out in a dull drawl: "Morning, sunshine."

Harry promptly untangled himself from Draco and moved to sit up, startled as the words—or more importantly, _voice—_registered.

Draco pressed his hands to either side of Harry's collarbone and pushed him back down and to the pillow.

"Stay," he said firmly, sliding out from under Harry and withdrawing so that they were no longer touching. He retrieved his wand from beside Harry, who was staring up at him with bleary, red-rimmed eyes and a look of utter confusion. He looked desperate, so desperate, and Draco struggled to keep his face expressionless and stop the sneer that threatened to overcome him.

"You were screaming again," Draco supplied, running a hand through his mussed hair. He tried flattening it a bit, his eyes on Harry's. "And you stopped breathing."

Harry felt groggy, disgustingly so, his eyelids heavy as he peered up at Draco. His eyebrows pushed together as he processed what Draco said. He had been screaming, no doubt because of another nightmare—but wait, he had taken that potion. He moved to sit up again and this time, Draco simply gave him a humoring look, one that said what he chose not to—_bloody idiot. _Blurred, Harry's room lurched, and instead of standing as he had wanted to, he settled for grabbing his glasses. There was a weight against his heart, hard and painful, and his lungs ached more and more with each breath. He narrowed his eyes and tried giving Draco a proper glare through his confusion. His thoughts were slowed, sleep-ridden, and it took him much longer than it should to put two and two together.

"I took that potion," he said with an edge, accusing.

Draco wasn't stupid.

He narrowed his eyes at what Harry was implying and, with a slight wave of his hand said, "There was nothing wrong with the potion, Potter."

"Yeah, okay," scoffed Harry. His voice was hoarse and it hurt him to speak.

Draco exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He was much more under-handed than Harry was giving him credit, and besides, he had worked with poisons before. They were too unreliable. They depended entirely on the other person consuming them and Draco disliked the number of scenarios involved. If, for instance, the person had taken any other sort of potion, the effect of a poison could be rendered completely useless—his eyes met Harry's again, the question sudden, and he narrowed his eyes further, almost into slits.

"This is very important, Potter," he said carefully, searching his face. "What did you take?"

Harry shrugged, cringing a bit at how sore he felt, and kept his glare trained on Draco.

"Just that ruddy potion," he answered.

Draco's eyebrows lifted slightly.

"Nothing else? Nothing else at all, at any point today?"

Harry jutted out his chin a bit in defense, shaking his head.

"No, just that..." there was a pause and then a realization, "..and my treatment from Mr. Muller."

Draco blanched.

".._what_?" he asked, nearly hissing the word. He stepped closer to Harry's bed again, his eyes narrowed. Harry shifted uncomfortably, his breathing still too shallow, and eyed Draco as if he were something poisonous. He went to repeat himself, his grogginess making Draco's reaction incomprehensible, but Draco interrupted, his voice considerably louder.

"You bloody idiot! You ignorant, foolish, block-headed Gryffindor! You never, _ever _mix potions—of any sort—without first researching if they're compatible!"

Harry's glare softened.

_Oh._

He looked away, down at his lap and the tangle of blankets by his feet.

"You're the one that gave it to me," he offered quietly, the heat of Draco's glare making him squirm a bit. "I just, I thought that—"

"Well that's the problem, isn't it, Potter?" Draco interrupted, his words scathing. "You _thought._"

Harry's guilt was apparent and he kicked at the mountain of blankets at the end of the bed, his legs screaming in protest. He pursed his lips, a bit of his confusion passing, and he could feel his eyes burning again. He tried blinking the sensation away and wrapped his arms around himself, his fingers playing with the hems of his night-shirt.

"Sorry," he muttered finally, defeated.

He had almost died.

He had almost killed himself.

Again.

But this time was different. He could remember his actions clearly, remember the course he had taken. He hadn't _wanted _to die, but it had been a near-consequence, and he felt more pathetic than even before. His mouth puckered a bit and he let out a hard breath.

Draco let out a sharp exhale of his own, surveying Harry with an uncertain eye. Harry's regret was apparent and Draco started to analyze himself. Why had he saved Harry—again? He thought of the previous day, of glass against skin, and he wondered if Harry wanted to die. If he did, why shouldn't Draco let him? Misery loved company, yes, but Draco didn't, and after yesterday, he was unsure if he got the same sort of thrill from Harry's suffering.

Harry looked utterly desperate, and now that Draco had managed to suppress his sneer, Draco felt an unfamiliar sensation wrap itself around his heart.

He ignored it and conjured a glass of water, handing it to Harry without a word.

Harry glanced up at the movement and eyed it as if it were something poisonous again.

"It's just _water,_" Draco huffed, offering it to him again with a bit of a jerk. "Drink it."

Begrudgingly, Harry did as he was told and put the glass to his mouth.

"Just make sure you—"

Draco stopped mid-sentence as Harry finished it. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until he had taken that first sip, and Draco gave him an incredulous look.

"—sip it," Draco finished finally.

Harry gave him a slightly guilty look and Draco didn't meet his eyes as he magically refilled the cup.

"Never mind that," he muttered, stepping back and away, sitting on his own bed. He met Harry's eyes again, pleased as Harry took a careful sip and then settled the glass in his lap. "Listen carefully, Potter—you need to remain awake."

"Why?" questioned Harry, his eyelids still heavy.

"While I admit the amount of enjoyment I find in your company would raise considerably if you were to slip into a never-ending coma, I imagine McGonagall would make my life quite insufferable."

Harry studied him for a moment, thinking.

"Is that why you're being so nice?"

Draco's nose wrinkled at the question.

"No," he bit out, "I'm a glutton for punishment."

Harry didn't push for more of an answer. He doubted he would like the real reason any better than the scathing one.

"Figured," he shrugged. He worried on his bottom lip before saying, "You know, Malfoy—this is the second time you've saved me."

A deep breath and then, "I should probably thank you—or something."

"Don't mention it," Draco replied quickly, his expression hard. It wasn't a _you're welcome _but more of a threat, and Harry quickly dropped it. Again, he was unsure if he really wanted an answer, if he really wanted to try figuring Draco out. As twisted as it may seem, Harry sort of liked the certain circumstances. He liked the strange sort of distance Draco gave him, watchful but apathetic, cool and calculating. It was better than Ron's poorly concealed looks or Hermione's tense shuffling. Harry sighed, hiccuping again, and looked back down at his lap. His eyes hurt. He wanted desperately to sleep, and the more he tried to resist, the more tired he became. Carefully, he sipped his water, but it was of no use. His throat was parched and his lips dry. He swallowed, hard, and with more self-discipline than should be necessary, lowered his glass. He glanced at Draco again, eager to find a distraction to his exhaustion.

"I'm tired," he said simply.

Draco arched an eyebrow.

"Point?"

Harry shrugged.

"Help keep me awake?"

"I could always bring you to Pomfrey—"

"No!" Harry snapped. He refused to go to Pomfrey—they would think that he had done it deliberately, he was sure, and that would be it for his freedom. He would be forced into a small room in St. Mungo's, the fallen savior locked away from the world because of his spiral into insanity. "I'm just... tired... why do I have to stay awake again?"

"You have to let your system work through the potion. We learned it during our second year in Potions—" Harry gave him a blank look and Draco sneered, "—Salazar, you really are horrible at it, aren't you?"

He paused, shaking his head before Harry could reply and said, "Forget it. Maybe you _should _just go to sleep."

Harry scowled and shifted to throw a pillow at him. It fell short and to the floor with a pathetic thump. His eyes lingered on it before moving to Draco, who was giving him a broad smirk.

"I reckon that's why you're not a beater."

Harry tried throwing his other pillow.


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: **I hope this A/N can clear up some confusion for myself and for my lovely readers. The ending battle happened differently in this story—hence its status as an AU fanfiction. However, Snape still killed Dumbledore when Draco failed at his task. Draco's mum was used in a punishment of his failure—Voldemort handed her over to the wolf, Greyback, and made Draco watch as she was torn to pieces. Hopefully you've all gathered that much already. Lucius is in Azkaban for high crimes against the Ministry and known involvement with Voldemort and the Dark Arts. **I'm leaving what happened in the final battle vague for a reason—any guesses as to what that reason is, yet?—but know that it will eventually be explained.**

I'm sorry this chapter is so short. My muse seems to have gone on hiatus without me—that little fucker—but **if we can bump this story up to fifty reviews (that's only four more!), I should be able to work up enough inspiration to update again maybe Monday night/Tuesday morning.**

I really am sorry this chapter is so horrid, and there's the very distinct chance that (provided my muse returns!) I'll edit it later because I hate it so. ):

But, as always, thank you for reading and please, _please _review!

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. No song this time, because my inspiration hates.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

&**.Chapter 11**

X

When Harry awoke the following morning, it felt as if someone had dipped his hair into something flammable and had then promptly proceeded to set his head ablaze.

His entire head hurt—forehead, temples, eyes, mouth, _everything. _There was a slow ache, a dull throbbing that was intent on working its way into the furthest recesses of his mind. Begrudgingly, he opened his eyes, grimacing at the bit of sunlight streaming in from the window. He squeezed them back shut and flipped over, burying his face under a pillow. He had only just fallen asleep maybe an hour or so ago, if he was judging the sunlight correctly, and he had felt fine then. So why did it suddenly feel as if someone was drilling into his brain?

He groaned, his stomach doing a funny sort of lurch at the thought, and he could barely hear Draco snickering from across his head.

"Giants dancing on your head, Potter?" Draco called, his voice light. "Maybe they'll flatten it."

Harry shifted so that he could make a rude hand gesture and he could practically hear Draco's smirk as he bit back, "Didn't your mother teach you any manners? Oh—right."

Harry pulled a face, although the expression was missed by Draco, and remained silent, in too much pain to even entertain proper anger. He pressed his arm harder against the pillow, pushing it closer to his head in attempts to silence what ever remarks were to come next. Draco was not so easily deterred, however, and he moved closer so that his voice was even louder than before.

"Calm yourself, scarhead," he drawled, coming to a stop just before Harry's bed. "This should help."

Hesitantly, Harry pried the pillow away from his face to find Draco practically hovering over him, glass in hand. He blinked away some of the sunlight, staring blearily up at the other and mumbling against his bed, "Wh'isit?"

Draco raised both eyebrows and have Harry a pinched, bored look.

Huffing, Harry shifted so that he could properly as, "What is it?"

Expressionless, Draco replied simply, "Poison."

Harry rolled his eyes, which proved to be a fairly considerable mistake as pain shot through his sinuses and he visibly flinched. His pillow fell to the side and he pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eyes, groaning again.

"Stop being such a pansy," Draco sneered.

"_I'm _the pansy?" scoffed Harry, remembering the few incidents he had seen Draco in pain. He had always made things seem incrementally worse than they were, and Harry said in a mock-whine, "My father will hear about this!"

Something cold and wet sloshed over the edge of Draco's glass and onto Harry's face. He startled, quickly sitting up and frantically wiping at his skin with his duvet. Clearly amused, Draco smirked with feigned innocence and said, "Relax, Potter; it's harmless."

Harry finished wiping at his face, his skin flush from the pressure of his hands, and he glared up at Draco, scowling.

"Easy for you to say," he replied stiffly, his own voice making his head throb.

Draco smirked and practically tossed the glass at Harry. More liquid sloshed over its edge and Harry floundered to keep it upright as it almost slipped from his hands and onto his bed. His glare intensified as he steadied it and peered down into the glass.

Exasperated, Draco loudly said, "It's just _water._"

Harry's glare softened and he took a careful sip. He nearly spewed it out, back into the glass, but managed to force it down, its contents making his tongue and throat tingle. He pulled a face, disgusted, and thrust the glass back at Draco.

"Just water?" he repeated, glaring again. "From what—the toilet?"

Both of Draco's eyebrows shot up for a moment and he smirked, his forehead smoothing as he said, "There's an idea."

Harry could already feel his headache subsiding, however, and the decrease of hot, searing pain made it hard to continue being disgusted. What ever was in the glass, it certainly wasn't water, but it was working and he couldn't really complain about that. Hesitantly, he took another sip, cringing at its taste but swallowing anyway.

"There's a good boy," Draco said, clearly patronizing. He moved across the room to sit by the window, folding his legs underneath him in a single, languid movement, and Harry watched his grace with slight irritation and envy. "It has a bit of cinnamon extract, and crushed beetle shell to help with your headache—if you _must _know."

Harry made another face and quickly set the glass on his bedside table, grabbing his glasses.

"Thanks for that."

Draco smirked again but said nothing, his eyes on Harry as he shuffled from his bed and stood to stretch. As disgusting as water with crushed beetle shell sounded, it had certainly done the trick, and Harry tried desperately not to think about its contents as the throbbing in his head nearly vanished. Instead, he thought about the excessive essays he needed to do before Monday; since he was unable to practice most magic, all of his Professors had given him an obscene amount of writing instead. He sighed. So much for his Saturday. With that thought came another, and he brightened a bit, although it quickly passed as he announced, "Quidditch try-outs are today."

Draco nodded.

"Very good, Potter."

He peered over at Draco, stretching a bit more before finally leaning against one of his bedposts.

"Are.. are you going to try out?" he asked quietly, with a bit of hesitance.

Draco deliberately looked away, turning to the window.

"No," he replied. There was a slight edge to his voice and both of Harry's eyebrows raised.

He didn't press it, however, and instead said, "Me either. Ron wants me to, but—I'unno. I just—"

Draco turned back to Harry, his eyes flashing as he interrupted, "I didn't ask _why, _Potter. Try to practice some restraint and be quiet for once. I know it's difficult, but at least _try _before I'm forced to spell your mouth shut."

Harry's eyebrows furrowed.

"I was just trying to make conversation, Malfoy."

"Is _that _what that was?" Draco scoffed, sneering, "Well, don't."

Harry jutted his chin out, defensive. The night before had been misleading, then; Draco had stayed up with Harry for most of the night, ensuring that he didn't fall asleep despite his taunting to do otherwise. There had been little conversation and Draco had managed to get quite a bit of his homework done while Harry struggled to read through half-lidded eyes, but the silence had been more comfortable than ever before.

"Fine!" he said loudly, pushing off of his bed post.

"Fine," Draco echoed back, turning to the window again.

"So glad we could agree," Harry bit out, refusing to give Draco the last word as he headed toward the bathroom. His anger was starting to surface; what right did Draco have to be such a constant _prick—_to constantly mind-fuck Harry? One moment he was saving his life and the next he was taunting him about his parents or threatening to curse him.

Draco went to say something else but the sound of his voice was cut off as Harry slammed the bathroom door shut behind himself.


	13. Chapter 12

**A/N: **I think my muse has returned! (: I have an idea for the next chapter, but first, a few questions.

Would you guys rather have shorter, more frequent updates, or longer weekly ones?

And, has anyone been able to guess why I'm keeping the final battle vague? It should be quite obvious and I'm sort of torn between whether or not I actually want someone to guess it.. but give it a shot anyway! (: And maybe you guys will get a prize. I haven't decided yet what, but, maybe!** Oh, and the more reviews I get by Wednesday (when I go back to work!) the quicker an update will appear and take away the slight cliff hanger!** And as always, thank you for reading! You're all amazing.

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. The song Closer is the property of Cauterize, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

&**.Chapter 12**

X

_I've been thinking leaving since the day that we met,_

_'cause if I don't get close, when it's all over, I'll just forget._

_I have seen the end so many times, I've played it in my mind—_

_and I am scared to death, I never want to see your dark side. _

/ / Closer by Cauterize.

X

There was a searing heat coursing through his veins, a fire he recognized but could not understand as he paced the length of the bathroom with dark eyes and clenched hands. Draco had always had a way of getting under his skin but he had hardly scraped the surface this time; the anger Harry felt right then was unnecessary, unreasonable, and very impulsive. It was directed at Draco but caused by so much more.

Harry stepped toward the bathroom counter and, taking his glasses off, turned on the faucet. Exhaling sharply, he leaned down to splash his face with water; it was warmer than expected and his face flushed under its heat, his anger raising to meet it. His vision blurred and he straightened, barely steadying himself with the bathroom counter top. He felt as if he were only a passenger in the vessel that was his body, as if someone else were manning the wheel, and Harry could feel his anger wanting to lash out. He could feel it twisting around his heart and his magic and _pulling, _pulling hard, and he looked up abruptly, the bathroom mirror shattering.

He stopped, eyes wide and breathing ragged as he peered at the broken pieces of his reflection.

_Broken. _Broken just like he was.

Harry cursed to himself and with a few short, sloppy steps, he backed himself into the wall.

He slid down the wall and to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. Panic fluttered through his chest, gripping his lungs and squeezing hard—he gasped for air, his hands moving to tangle in his own hair as he rocked slowly, back and forth, back and forth, _back and forth. _He squeezed his eyes shut, a sharp pain shooting through his body. His lungs burned, desperate for air, and he floundered silently before a shuddering breath, hot air cooling the burn and making his eyes water.

Harry clawed at his hair and started sobbing, barely aware of the pounding against the door.

"Potter!" Draco yelled, trying the handle again. The door was locked from the other side and, because of Hogwart's enchantments, it was impervious to any unlocking magic he might typically try.

There had been a loud crash just moments before and a loud, pain-stricken mewling noise—a hard yell or a sob, Draco couldn't tell which—and he pounded harder on the door. Something was wrong, very wrong—he could taste it in the air, a sort of electric charge that made the hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand alert, goosebumps littering his skin.

"Potter—open this door this very instant!" he demanded, jerking the handle up and putting his shoulder into it. His body ached at the pressure and if Harry wasn't already dead, Draco _swore _he was going to kill him—he tried pushing into it again and then there was a sweet popping noise as the handle and its wards loosened. Withdrawing his wand, Draco muttered a spell under his breath and there was a small blast and lots of smoke as the door swung open.

Draco's eyes swept across the length of the bathroom, the air thick with steam.

The faucet was on, hot water rushing into the sink and spilling onto the floor, and the bathroom mirror was shattered, pieces of glass littering the water and sparkling in the light. His eyes moved to Harry and he inhaled sharply at the sight: Harry was against the floor, curled into himself and rocking back and forth, his fingers clawing desperately at his hair, bloodied by glass. Even from the doorway, Draco could see the small shards embedded into Harry's skin and he thought of that night in the Hospital Wing—he rushed forward and tried prying Harry's arms from himself. A few shards of glass had been transferred from his hands and arms to his face and Draco could feel them digging into his own hands as he struggled to tear Harry away from himself.

"Potter!" he said loudly, searching his face.

Harry's eyes were squeezed shut and he was muttering to himself, his words slurred and incomprehensible.

Draco grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and shook.

"Dammit, Potter—get a hold of yourself!"

Harry suddenly stilled, practically collapsing into Draco's arms, and Draco fell to the floor beside him, nearly cradling him.

Harry grabbed at Draco's shirt, twisting his fingers around it and pulling him as close as their position allowed. His face was breaths away from Draco's, then. Draco swallowed, hard, staring back into Harry's wide eyes with a confused gaze of his own—there was a dark sort of fire to his irises that felt familiar, the same sort of fire he had witnessed in his mother's eyes as someone cast an unforgivable on her before feeding her to Greyback. Harry suddenly screamed, falling against him with a hiccuping breath, and he started digging at the glass in his wrists.

"Get it out—get it out—it's burrowing, _fuck, _it's burrowing—just—just get it out, please, just—"

Harry looked down at his skin, frantic as the glass worked its way further in, slipping into his veins and cutting him open—Draco sensed his delusion and caught Harry's hands before he could do anymore harm. His wand narrowly twisted between two fingers, nearly slipping out of his grasp as Harry struggled, Draco said, loudly, "Stupefy!"

There was a flash of red and Harry stilled.

Draco untangled himself, his trousers wet, and spelled the water off before levitating Harry out of the bathroom and into his bed. He kept the spell firmly in place and walked the length to their window, pushing it open and whistling out into the fresh air. Sticking his arm out the window, moments passed before an owl swooped down and dug its talons into his forearm. He hissed, pulling his arm (and owl) back inside and moved to his desk, quickly scribbling a note onto a scrap of parchment.

Harry groaned from his bed, Draco's spell lifting itself, and Draco flicked his arm up—the owl flew over and landed onto a bedpost as Draco neared Harry again.

"Just stay still, Potter—I'll curse you again in a heartbeat—don't think I won't. I'm getting Pomfrey."

"No," he managed, staring up at Draco with more coherency than before. He could feel the glass in his arms, sharp and burning against his skin, and unlike before, he was careful to hold still. "Please—I.. sh-she's just going to s-send me to the n-nut house."

"Like they should have long ago," Draco said, his eyes hard. "You're a raving lunatic, Potter, and if you weren't the bloody chosen one, you'd be locked up already—well, I'm not playing your sitter any longer—I _hope _they lock you up, do us all a favor."

Harry could feel his eyes burning, panic gripping at his heart again, and he shook his head, frantic.

"No—please, _please Malfoy—_I'm begging you."

"There's a sight," Draco smirked, shaking his head and beckoning his owl closer.

"_Please—_" Harry repeated, trying to sit up. He felt so bloody pathetic but his survival instincts were kicking in. He didn't want to be locked up like some mad person, a lunatic dead to the world, and he would do anything to remain at Hogwarts—even if it meant selling his soul to the devil. "Please, Malfoy. I'll do anything. I-I promise."

Both of Draco's eyebrows went up and he looked back to Harry.

"Anything?" he repeated, and with a slight sneer.

Harry swallowed hard but nodded despite the weight in his chest.

"Anything."

Draco's eyes swept over him and he appeared to be considering it. The owl kept its place just above his head, perched on Harry's bed, and peered down at him with dark eyes as if it, too, sensed a shift.

"Here's the thing, Potter," Draco said after another moment, his eyes meeting Harry's again. "You're useless. What could you possibly have to offer? Nothing—that's what." He smirked. "I'm sure you'll make a _lovely _addition to St. Mungo's."

"Information?" Harry suggested, grappling at straws.

Draco perked up a bit. Maybe there was something he could offer after all. Draco was curious, very much so—his eyes swept across Harry again, lingering on his bloodied arms. There, littering his forearms, were dozens of thin, faded lines. He had noticed them before, of course, witnessed Harry making several of them—after a moment of silence, he asked, voice quiet, "Why do you do it?"

Harry furrowed his brow.

"Do what?"

"Hurt yourself," Draco said simply, his eyes steady with Harry's.

He drew in a quick breath, searching Draco's face. Of all the things he had expected Draco to ask, that had been the furthest from his mind—Hell, that hadn't even been _in _his mind. He had expected Draco to press him for unnecessary details regarding the war or information about himself that would no longer be of any real use. He swallowed, hard, and caught his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I... I don't know," he said finally, clearly hesitant. He brought his eyes to Draco's again. Both of Draco's eyebrows raised, ever-so-slightly, and he offered Harry a casual, one-shouldered shrug.

"Fine," he said easily. "I'll just owl Pomfrey, then."

Harry tensed.

"N-no—" he said quietly, bringing Draco's eyes back to his. Draco stared at him expectantly and he continued to worry on his lip, his eyes dropping to his bloodied hands. The glass caught a bit of the sunlight, shining brightly with an utterly surreal beauty, and Harry's fingers twitched, drawing a dull pain up his arm.

"I.. I'm pathetic," he said finally. "I-I can hear.."

He trailed off, his eyes closing with a grimace. He could feel Draco's eyes on him, hard and intruding, and Harry felt much too vulnerable for his liking. He was sure that Draco was enjoying it, and he tried very hard not to squirm under his gaze. He was hesitant to tell Draco of the voice that told him how worthless and pathetic he was—voicing it aloud somehow made it more real and Harry wasn't ready for that. He opened his eyes, swallowing, and finally said, "It's completely backwards—but, I.. I feel so pathetic. The way everyone looks at me now—treats me—what else am I supposed to do, besides embrace it?"

His mouth pulled into the faintest of smiles, wry and self-pitying, and he forced himself to look at Draco again. He shrugged slightly, not quiet meeting his eyes and finishing with, "It—it makes me feel less worthless, like I still have _some _sort of control.."

Draco's expression was unreadable and Harry looked away. He wouldn't be surprised if Draco went back on his word and called Pomfrey anyway—and Hell, maybe he had a point. Harry certainly sounded like a raving lunatic. Maybe being locked up in some dingy cell in St. Mungo's would be better than this, better than the pitying looks and the swirl of whispered rumors. Instead, Draco called for the chair from the nearest desk. There was a loud scraping noise as it slid across the floor, propelled by magic, and Harry's eyes flicked to Draco as he dropped down into it.

Draco conjured a trash bin from the glass of water from earlier and set it beside Harry's bed. Harry shifted so that he was sitting, letting out a low hiss, but Draco barely glanced at him. Harry wanted to know what Draco was thinking, demand to know what he would do with what Harry told him—it was obvious that he wasn't going to call Pomfrey, but Harry couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why. He remained quiet, however, as Draco withdrew his wand, spelling his hands so that the glass wouldn't transfer, and then he set about withdrawing the shards from Harry's hand. Harry hissed occasionally, his nose scrunching up every now and again as Draco pulled at a particularly tender bit. He tried to remain as still as possible, but it was hard. As soon as the glass was withdrawn, his skin crawled, itched, and it was taking every ounce of self-control he could muster to keep his other hand still in his lap. Draco struggled to keep his mind blank. He half-considered asking Harry if he would rather be unconscious, like he was when Pomfrey did it, but he didn't, if only because of the silent thrill he got every time Harry flinched. He pulled out a particularly long sliver, causing Harry to twitch, to jerk under the movement. The glass scratched at his arm, cutting skin, and Draco pulled back; droplets of blood seeped through broken skin, a new scratch besides old ones, and Draco stared at it, his hand hovering above the spot, still. Harry's eyes flicked to Draco's face and then there was that voice in his head again—he swallowed, hard, and moved his arm up, pressing into the shard of glass.

Finally, Draco met his eyes.

He let out a slow, almost shuddering breath, and Draco's hand moved on its own accord to drag the glass further across Harry's arm.


	14. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Sorry this chapter is so short, my lovelies, and so much later than I had hoped! I've been really sick since Tuesday and I've missed a bit of work because of it.. at times I felt like my brain was literally mush! But I didn't want anyone thinking I've abandoned this, because I most certainly haven't, so I thought posting something small was better than posting nothing at all. (Look, I'm a poet and I didn't even know it! Mm, yeahh, blame the drugs.)

It looks like the general consensus is for longer, weekly updates, so I'll try posting something with a bit more length and depth by this time next week.

On a side note, I've been getting a lot of anonymous reviews. This is great—I have no problems with that, but it seems a few of you are a bit confused about Harry and Draco's relationship, and I can't PM you to clarify things. Rest assured, this **will **be slash—eventually. I think this chapter kind of starts into that, actually, but in my mind, their relationship is complicated. They've always had a strange sort of relationship, even as enemies, a strange sort of fascination with one another. I don't want them to loose that strangeness and suddenly become all fluff and hugs and kisses, if that makes sense. /endrant.

**That brings me to my request, though; please, if you have a question you'd like me to answer, ask it! And in my next author's note for the next chapter, I'll do exactly that!**

As always, please review!

Your encouragement and feedback is doing wonders for my motivation!

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. The song Flaws is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

&**.Chapter 13**

X

_I'll change everything I do,_

_take what ever measures possible to accommodate you._

_No, I don't put much faith in anything at all.._

_but I feel confident when you're around,_

_and I'm not afraid to fall._

/ / Flaws by The Spill Canvas.

X

Harry let out a low hiss through his teeth as the glass sliced through his skin, a faint smile playing at his lips. Draco applied a bit more pressure than Harry would have himself, but adrenaline—hot and cold at the same time—coursed through his veins and dulled the sensation. It was a mixture of Heaven and Hell—relief and pain, a realization and a nightmare. He was a whirlwind of thought and emotion as Draco's hand stilled above his arm, the glass leaving his skin. Harry wasn't the only one broken, he realized. It was possible that Draco was simply sadistic, of course, but the way his eyes held onto Harry's—he thought he saw something more there, a hot, drowning fire that he could recognize and understand. As twisted as it seemed, Draco was the first to show any sign of understanding. He still felt as if he was surrounded by darkness, but knowing that there was someone in the darkness with him helped tremendously.

Draco's eyes widened with the realization of what he had done and the glass fell to the floor, breaking into smaller pieces. His mouth was parted, as if to speak, but no words came.

He had broken through his own wall, had laid down his restraint at his feet and had, perhaps unknowingly, beckoned Harry closer. He felt weak—exposed—and ashamed. He remembered when he had first witnessed Harry hurting himself with surprising clarity. He could remember the slight taste of bitterness in the air, his blood glistening under the torchlight—he could remember the almost overwhelming urge to reach out and hurt him, show him that he wasn't alone. Draco had had the strength to walk away, then, but perhaps when he needed his strength even more, it had abandoned him. He was disgusted with himself.

He pushed off of his chair and moved to leave.

Harry quickly sat up, firmly catching his hand in his own.

The movement was almost dizzying and Harry suddenly felt very, very tired.

"Stay?" he asked quietly, his voice no longer pathetic and breaking.

Draco turned to him. A slow trail of blood was sliding down Harry's forearm, wrapping itself around and dripping to the floor. He watched it for a moment before his eyes flicked up to Harry's, his stomach tightened into a knot.

Harry tugged on his hand gently and Draco allowed himself to be pulled toward the chair again. He practically collapsed into it, his eyes returning to Harry's arm, their hands still clasped.

"I should treat that."

His voice was quiet, soft, and without its usual edge, causing Harry's eyebrows to pucker.

"Leave it," he replied just as softly.

Draco nodded slightly and started picking at the remaining bits of glass embedded in the back of his hand. His skin was considerably softer than Harry's own and despite the obvious change in composure, Draco's touch steady, perhaps more gentle than before. Harry watched him through half-lidded eyes, feeling much too relaxed for the situation. He only tensed when he felt Draco's touch retreat and looked at him more clearly. Draco moved the chair and the bin to the other side of Harry's bed before sitting again. He then started working on Harry's other hand and wrist, tossing the glass carelessly into the rubbish bin—save for Harry's slightly ragged breathing, the slight cracking noise it made was the only sound that interrupted their joined silence.

That is, until Draco spoke.

"Are you in pain?"

Harry searched his face but there was nothing to be found. He assumed Draco was asking if his hands or arms were hurting, but his answer referred to much more than physical pain.

"Not anymore."

Draco nodded slightly again and Harry could see the muscle working along the edge of his jaw. He surveyed him quietly, not quite realizing he was staring and not quite caring if he was. It was only when Draco had withdrawn most of the glass from his arm that he looked up, their eyes meeting. His eyes were brief, fleeting, and moved past Harry's eyes to his forehead. Having realized it wasn't needed, the owl above Harry's bed let out a soft _hoot _of a snore, nestling its head down into its neck-feathers, and Harry flinched, having forgotten its presence.

"Hold still," Draco commanded quietly, reaching up and plucking a single piece of glass from Harry's hairline. Harry barely flinched. He hadn't even realized it was there.

Draco searched his face for more glass but it appeared that that was it—the shards he had spotted earlier must have been illusions borne of glistening water in the torchlight. He dropped it into the rubbish bin and moved to stand again, reflexively shifting out of the way before Harry could grab at him again.

"Where are you going?" Harry asked, his hand falling back to the bed. He didn't really expect an answer; Draco had every right to leave and Harry couldn't stop him. Silence answered as Draco neared his own bed and crouched down in front of his trunk. Harry watched with vague interest as Draco quietly muttered something before pressed his thumb to its emblem, the snake withdrawing to prick him before the trunk unlatched and granted him access. Much like the last time Harry watched him open his trunk, Draco pressed his bloodied thumb to his mouth and kissed the blood from his skin. There was no smirk this time, no taunting acknowledgment of Harry's presence, and then Draco was rummaging through his belongings.

He could feel Harry's eyes on him, constant and questioning, but he remained quiet, returning to his bedside moments later with a small blue-green vial, a beige cloth and a tin of ointment.

"In theory, this should help draw out the remaining glass," Draco explained, setting both the vial and ointment on the bedside table. His eyes locked on Harry's.

"I trust you," Harry said quietly, his eyes flicking to the aforementioned items and then returning to Draco's.

The corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smirk, but it was fainter than usual, less twisted, and he touched the cloth to Harry's bloodied arm as he said, "How reassuring, Potter."

Harry inhaled sharply at the contact; the cloth was cold to the touch and he watched, startled, as it absorbed his blood, the fabric stained red for but a moment before cleaning itself.

"It's Harry, not Potter," he corrected quietly, his eyes returning to Draco's face. He thought it only appropriate that Draco stop calling him by his surname now—there was a change in their relationship, a shift that he was only vaguely aware of but comforted greatly by. He caught his lip between his teeth and tested the other's given name, adding, "Draco."

Draco shook his head, his smirk widening.

"It's always going to be Malfoy—" a deliberate pause and then, "—Harry, not Potter."

Harry snorted.

"Clever, _Malfoy._"

"Always," was the simple reply as Draco shifted to touch the cloth to Harry's head. Harry grimaced, biting back another low hiss—its coldness _burned—_and then Draco was setting it on the bedside table and picking up the vial instead. Attached to the cork was a small dropper and, carefully, Draco touched a single droplet of the potion to each of Harry's cuts. The potion bubbled against his skin, fizzing and hissing, and then evaporated. Harry watched, intrigued, as his skin pushed out the occasional sliver of glass, barely visible but glinting in the light.

When he was done with the potion, he opened the tin and started applying a pasty ointment to each cut. Harry could feel his skin cooling, but unlike the temperature of the cloth, it wasn't an unpleasant sensation. It kind of tingled, like menthol, and Draco was careful not to meet his eyes as he tended to the wound on his forehead.

Harry opened his mouth to speak but then Draco was moving away, bringing his things to the other side of his bed to work against his other arm. He repeated the same steps with Harry's left arm and Harry searched for something to say.

Finally, he settled with, "Thank you."

Draco's eyes flicked up to his face. He looked as if he wanted to say something but instead simply nodded, his gaze returning to the task at hand as he spread the ointment along Harry's skin. He flipped Harry's arm over, a hand sliding down and settling underneath his. Draco's other hand hovered above the cut he had deliberately made and his eyes returned to his.

"Leave it," Harry repeated, meeting his gaze.

Draco swallowed and then the muscle was working in his jaw again.

"At least let me clean it."

Harry sighed but nodded. It was strange and twisted and _wrong _but Harry had grown rather fond of those sort of scars—and, with a flash, he remembered the scar Draco bore against his chest, and he thought it rather fitting that Draco had given him one in return.

Draco averted his eyes and reached for the cloth, touching it lightly along the length of the incision.

Harry barely made a noise this time, but his hand did wrap around Draco's, his grip tightening.

Draco draped the cloth along the rim of the rubbish bin, the ointment and vial setting next to it on the floor, and he settled back in his chair, Harry's hand still firmly clasping his. His eyes traced the cut on his forearm—the skin was pulled back to show the tissue underneath and Draco felt something bitter and cold push at his heart. He had applied more pressure than needed, evidently, and more than he had intended.

"You'll be lucky if that doesn't get infected," he observed, looking at Harry then.

Harry shrugged and gave him a flippant sort of smile.

"I'm the chosen one, yeah? Luck is my middle name."

"Too bad that gash wasn't a bit deeper," Draco replied, "maybe it could have let some of that air out of your head."

"There's always next time."

The truth of his words echoed for a moment, bouncing between the two of them until finally, Harry averted his eyes, Draco's hand warm in his.


	15. Chapter 14

**A/N: **This is a long chapter. Hopefully it makes up for the last one, yeah? No one asked any questions, so I suppose this will be a rather short note.. mm, I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this chapter, but there are definitely points that I like. I think pieces of it definitely add to Harry and Draco's dynamic. I'unno, but hopefully there will be pieces of it you like, too—if not the whole thing! (:

And as always, please, _please _review!

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. The song Battles is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

&**.Chapter 14**

X

_It's like one thousand paper cuts,  
soaked in vinegar.  
Like the battles with yourself,  
that leave you insecure.  
It's all just a numbing charade  
Until the day you finally wake up,  
and you're not afraid. _

/ / Battles by The Spill Canvas.

X

"How are you doing, Harry?"

"Fine," he said quietly, although his body language betrayed him. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his arms settling around his abdomen, hands gripping either of his sides. He fingered his robes, playing with the thick material and barely met Mr. Muller's eyes. Thankfully, what ever ointment Draco had used earlier that morning had mended his head within an hour, leaving no one but them to be any wiser about Harry's early morning break down.

"I see," Mr. Muller said lightly, reaching over to touch the quill hovering above the Headmistress' desk. It started scribbling furiously, recording his thoughts, and Harry grimaced. "How are classes going?"

Harry shrugged.

"I have a lot of writing," he said simply.

Mr. Muller nodded and gave Harry an almost condescending sort of smile.

"I'm sure you do—" he said, surveying Harry for a moment before adding, "—and how are you adjusting to your magic?"

Harry stared at the floor.

"It's hard," he confessed. "I feel useless."

He was vaguely aware of the quill scribbling furiously again and Mr. Muller gave him a curt nod.

"Only natural," he assured. "Change is hard, Harry, but you _will _adjust. What ever you struggle with—it will make you stronger, if you let it."

The corner of Harry's mouth twitched but he said nothing, his thoughts elsewhere. There was a wisdom in Mr. Muller's words, a slight twinkle in his dark eyes that reminded Harry of a time too far gone. He thought of Dumbledore—the expression on his face as he fell from the Astronomy tower, his wisdom dying in his eyes and—Harry swallowed thickly, his eyes slipping shut and reopening as he tried pushing such images from his mind.

If Mr. Muller noticed the change in him, he was kind enough not to announce it, instead saying, "Have you had any of the symptoms I mentioned? Depression, mood swings, stomach cramps, head aches?"

Harry wanted to lie—more than anything, he wanted to lie, as if denying it would make it less true, make him better—healthier—more sane. But he remembered Mr. Muller's many reminders that hiding things would only hurt his cause and that he could only help if Harry allowed him to, so instead, Harry begrudgingly nodded. He was compelled to tell the truth, if only because he yearned to get better, even if that meant accepting Mr. Muller's help.

"Yeah."

Mr. Muller smiled gently.

"And when something like that occurs, what do you do?"

Despite his previous thoughts, Harry highly doubted admitting that he went into the bathroom and frequently hurt himself would help his cause any more than lying would—so he contradicted himself and lied, hoping it sounded smoother out-loud than in his head.

"I try to focus on my breathing."

Mr. Muller smiled again, nodding, "Brilliant. Have you been keeping a journal, as we discussed?"

Harry shook his head.

"No," he said, honestly this time. He looked back down at the floor. "My hands are cramping from the essays themselves—I.. I don't really want to write more, on top of that."

Really, he had just forgotten.

"I suppose that's understandable; perhaps a quill such as mine would help?" he suggested.

Harry shrugged.

"Maybe."

Really, the idea of a journal made his stomach flip. He thought of second year and the journal that wrote back—he thought of the Basilisk, then of Ginny, then of Mrs. Weasley and her dead eyes. He grimaced again and visibly shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts from his mind. Even as he stared ahead, his eyes meeting Mr. Muller, the memory plagued him. Mr. Muller's quill started scribbling something again and Harry's eyes flicked to it for but a moment before moving to the floor.

"How are you and that Malfoy boy getting along?" Mr. Muller asked, effortlessly switching topics.

Harry thought for a moment, unsure of how to interpret the morning's events. Draco had helped him—willingly. It didn't matter that Harry had had to barter for his freedom and bribe Draco not to turn him into Madame Pomfrey—the rest had been done by Draco on his own accord. He had treated Harry's wounds in near-silence, with his own personal supply of medicine because he had wanted to. Why, Harry had no idea—what would compel him to suddenly help someone he thoroughly despised? Harry had felt closer to Draco that morning than he had to anyone else in a very long time, a feeling that only added to his confusion. Had Draco, perhaps, felt the same bond? Finally, Harry's face flushed a bit and a breath of a smile crossed his lips as he said, "He's.. manageable."

There was a flash of white teeth in Harry's peripheral as Mr. Muller grinned.

"I see. Are you two getting to know one another, then?"

Once again, Harry shrugged. He wasn't entirely sure if Draco temporarily rescuing him from himself and holding his hand until he fell into a light, restless sleep really counted as getting to know one another.

"Kind of, I guess. I'unno, really—we only started getting along better this morning."

Mr. Muller gave Harry another broad smile, clearly pleased with how open Harry was being.

"Perhaps you should make that effort—as we discussed Thursday, the forgiveness of others can lead to the forgiveness of oneself." He paused, his dark eyes sliding across the length of Harry's face. Harry felt himself tense a bit under the scrutiny, hesitantly meeting Mr. Muller's eyes with his own. "It does appear that you're doing a bit better, Harry—and while it's important to see how far you've already come, it's equally important—nay, perhaps more so—to see how much further you need to go. I daresay a reward is in order, however, so I challenge you to do this; get to know the Malfoy boy. If, by Monday, you can say that you've honestly tried, and your test results show improvement, I may consider lifting your constant supervision."

Harry's stomach did a nervous sort of flip. The idea of being able to walk the halls unsupervised made Harry much happier than, perhaps, it should; he longed for a bit of alone time and the sense of independence that came along with it. Slowly, he processed everything Mr. Muller had said and hesitantly asked, "Test results?"

Mr. Muller nodded.

"Just some simple diagnostics—nothing to fret over, I assure you. I'll explain more Monday, once I'm certain of the spells I need to preform." Harry swallowed, hard, but nodded. Mr. Muller continued, adding, "Oh—and before I forget—I've more potions for you. I have more of your current prescription, as well as a mood-enhancer I thought you'd benefit from.. It should help combat some of the symptoms brought on by the first potion—the depression and mood swings. I've already discussed it with Minerva and Madame Pomfrey; they've agreed that it could be beneficial, but of course, it's entirely up to you."

There was something hard in Harry's stomach, then. A burning, acidic sort of sensation, as if his gut were trying to answer for him. His mind argued against the feeling. Such a potion was logical and if both Professor McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey agreed, surely Harry was in no position to argue? Maybe it would take away his urge to self-harm, although an equally large part hoped not. He was flip-flopping from one emotion to the next. He wanted to get better and yet he didn't, still convinced that it was what he deserved and nothing more.

Despite his inner turmoil, Harry found himself nodding.

"Sure."

Mr. Muller gave him another broad smile and the burning in his stomach intensified. He felt like he was going to be sick, as if his body were trying to tell him something that his mind just couldn't interpret.

He tried to swallow down the sensation as Mr. Muller withdrew a palm-sized satchel from the pocket of his robes. Harry assumed it had an expanding enchantment on it because Mr. Muller withdrew several vials, setting them along the edge of Professor McGonagall's desk. He recognized the light-blue vials as his original serum. Beside those were three iridescent vials, their contents changing color in the light. First they appeared to be a dark, pearly sort of forest green, and then a deep turquoise with touches of purple. Mr. Muller handed one of them to Harry and Harry spun the vial between his fingers, watching its contents catch the light in a swirl of color.

"It's called the _felixiserum,_" said Mr. Muller. A slight pause and then, "Go ahead—toss it back. I've given you two others. In addition to the other serum, you're to take one vial per day. It's relatively fast acting and we should be able to get a read on whether or not it's helping you by Monday."

Harry nodded again, licking his lips as he uncorked the vial and drank its contents in two long swallows. It tasted a bit like mint, cool and clean, with a touch of clove. He handed the empty vial back to Mr. Muller.

"How does it taste?" Mr. Muller inquired, smiling as he stuffed the empty vial back into his satchel. He looked to Harry and explained, "The taste is different for every person—it works a bit like _potionatus __aeterna desiderio_—the potion of eternal longing. Simply put, its taste foreshadows something that makes you happy."

Harry wrinkled his nose and said, "It tasted like mint, I guess. Maybe clove? I'unno why, though."

He couldn't think of anything that tasted like mint and clove that brought him happiness—the first thing that came to mind was toothpaste, at least as far as the mint was concerned, but the thought was silly, really, and he pushed it aside as Mr. Muller shrugged.

"Ah, well, you will tell me if you figure it out, won't you? Mind you, it might not be associated with another taste—it could be a smell or something even more vague. There's actually debate whether or not there even is a connection. Still, I'd be absolutely thrilled to hear about it either way. The _felixiserum_ has always been something of an interest to me, as well as its sister potions." Mr. Muller offered Harry another broad smile and shifted a bit in his seat, conjuring another satchel and whisking the potions into it with a wave of his wand. He handed it to Harry and mused, "Perhaps if you make its connection, you'll no longer need the potion?"

The corner of Harry's mouth twitched and he forced himself to smile despite the thought that revealed itself—had he ever really been happy?

"Maybe."

X

Mr. Muller had escorted Harry to his dormitory, dropping him off outside of its portrait. The rest of their session had gone by rather slowly and when Harry returned, he practically tossed the satchel of potions onto his bed. Draco was sitting in front of the fire, curled on one corner of the couch with his knees propped up and a book in hand.

Harry tried pushing away his irritation, Mr. Muller's offer ringing in his ears. He had spent most of the walk to his dormitory in thought, trying to be tactical and figure out how best to approach Draco. He doubted he was much for simple Q and A and if Harry were simply honest, he thought Draco would try bartering with him like before. He tried to think of what he and Ron had done to bond, but such activities as saving the school from a troll or playing a life-size game of chess seemed out of the question. There were other activities, of course, such as exploding snap, homework, or regular Wizard's chess, but Harry was unsure if Draco would be interested. Still, it was worth a try and at least then he could say he had given it a go.

"I'm bored," he announced, practically collapsing on the couch beside Draco.

Draco looked at him over the edge of his book, shifting a bit to ensure that they were not touching one another, and sneered, "It's a pleasure, bored, but please, do go away."

Harry rolled his eyes and shifted a bit himself, closer to Draco, if only to spite him.

Draco's eyes narrowed at the movement and he shifted to compensate, which in turn only drew Harry closer.

"Don't you have an essay or something to be doing?" Draco bit out. Harry nodded and Draco gave him an expectant look, his eyebrows lifting when Harry made no movement to stir. He was nearly scowling when he suggested, "Then—do it?"

Harry shook his head and instead said, "What are you reading?"

Draco stared, blinking once, twice, and then looking back down at the book. Something had come over Harry. He could see it as clearly as he could see his emptiness and his anger and that vague shadow of a Gryffindor that passed through every now and then again—but what ever this change was, Draco sensed would be much more annoying.

"Malfoy," Harry said loudly, practically in a sing-song voice. He suddenly felt a bit drunk, giddy and happy for no apparent reason. The potion must have started taking effect and Harry had a tinkering idea that right then might not be the best time to approach Draco. The idea was easily ignored and he asked, in the same voice as before, "What are you _reading_?"

"Nothing—because _someone _won't keep their bloody mouth shut," Draco snapped, giving Harry a pointed look.

Harry suppressed a smile.

"Great! You're free, then. Exploding snap?"

"You're about to find out the definition of that game, Potter, lest you leave me to my reading."

"Wizard's Chess?" he tried, pushing off of the couch and moving to his trunk to fetch it before Draco had even answered. He was suddenly very antsy, awake, and was overwhelmed with the need to occupy his mind. "I think I have Ron's old set in here, somewhere..."

"I'm fine without such germs, thank you kindly."

Harry brightened despite the insult, looking back over at the couch.

"That's not a no."

"No. This is," Draco retorted, making a rude hand gesture over the couch's back.

"Mature," laughed Harry.

Draco glanced at him again, his eyes surveying.

"Says the resident five-year-old. Seriously, Potter—what _is _that man giving you? An age reversal potion?"

Harry scowled, leaning back against the post of his bed frame.

"I was just trying to be friendly—and I told you last night.. it's Harry."

Both of Draco's eyebrows darted up.

"Doubtful," Draco drawled, pointedly ignoring the latter part of Harry's remark. "Why the sudden attempt at camaraderie—_Potter_?"

Harry gave what he hoped was a careless sort of shrug and said, "I told you."

Draco shook his head.

"You're a horrible liar. Spill."

Harry sighed, hesitant, but compelled to answer—he thought of the potions Madame Pomfrey had given him the day he was diagnosed with schizophrenia and the loose tongue that came with them. The potion Mr. Muller had given him was similar, apparently, as Harry's mouth opened on its own accord and said, "Mr. Muller told me to; he said if we could get along better and I showed improvement, I could go on without a constant escort."

Both of Draco's eyebrows raised at that news.

"So what was this morning—was that improvement?"

Draco's eyes were challenging and Harry looked past him and into the fire.

"Never mind," he muttered, his mood darkening a bit at the memory. He suddenly felt rather silly for approaching Draco to begin with—no mater what, he thought, Draco was going to be difficult. He realized that then and tried not to let the thought ruin his good mood. He should probably be doing what Draco had originally suggested, anyway—homework.

Draco wasn't about to let it go that easily, however, and repeated, "Was that what Mr. Muller considers improvement?" He paused, tilting his head slightly to the side in vague curiosity, and then answered the question himself. "He doesn't know you're getting worse."

Harry shifted, folding his arms in front of his chest, and glared at Draco, though perhaps because of the potion (or what had happened that morning), it wasn't as strong a look as usual.

"I'm not getting worse," Harry said loudly.

Draco pursed his lips together and made an incoherent noise in the back of his throat.

"I'm not," Harry insisted, as if repeating it would make it true.

Draco gave him an amused look and drawled, "If you say so, Potter."

"If you're so certain I'm getting worse," Harry started, pushing off from the bed post and stepping closer to the couch, "then why didn't you call Madame Pomfrey?"

Silence answered him as Draco looked back down at his book, deliberately ignoring Harry and the memories he called forth. Draco had been weak that morning—he had allowed himself to connect with another person—with Harry Potter, of all people—and he wasn't particularly eager to relive his moment of weakness. He was both disgusted and disappointed with himself, intrigued by Harry even then.

Harry studied his profile, catching bottom lip between his teeth and worrying on the tender flesh. He didn't know the cause of Draco's silence, though he supposed the answer should be obvious—Harry had begged him not to. That's why he hadn't called Madame Pomfrey—well, partially, anyway. Why Draco had listened to him, had given into his pleading—Harry swallowed, remembering how gentle his touch was and how soft his hands were. He flushed, the tips of his ears stinging under the blush, and looked down at the floor.

Quietly, Harry said, "Nevermind that. Just... look at it this way—if we can fake our way through this, you'll be rid of me sometimes. You benefit too, yeah?"

Draco pursed his lips together but at least appeared to be thinking about it. He exhaled sharply, dramatically through his teeth, and moved from the couch, book clutched tightly in hand. He strode across the room to his trunk, kneeling down in front of it without a word until he had fetched his own chess set. Harry suppressed a smile.

"Fine, but we're using my set, not the _Weasel's," _said Draco, straightening. "I won't have my skin crawling and festering about with his _germs._"

"Don't call him that," Harry snapped, his good mood wavering a bit at the nickname.

"What would you have me call him, then?" Draco asked, clearly patronizing, his eyes barely flicking to where Harry was standing.

"Ron—or even Weasley. That _is _his name, you know."

"Weasley. Weasel. Close enough," he shrugged, moving across the room and settling down in front of the fire with the chess board.

"Fine," Harry said, dropping to the floor in front of him. "_Ferret._"

Draco glared at him but went to setting the board with a single wave of his wand. It was a rather ornate board, considerably more impressive than Ron's, its pieces well polished and delicately carved, glinting in the firelight. Tiny roses bordered the board itself and Harry surveyed the pieces in slight awe—it looked to be hand carved and very expensive and Harry tried not to appear too impressed. The first game went by quickly, too quickly, with Harry managing to capture only one of Draco's pieces before his king was almost cornered. It was clear that, like Ron, Draco thought three moves ahead—only he was considerably more calculating and vicious about his attacks, his pieces more brutal than Ron's had ever been as they dragged his pawns, rooks, and even bishops off to the sidelines.

"This is boring," Draco observed, knocking Harry's queen to the side and announcing, "Mate." He paused, his eyes moving to Harry. He deliberately stifled a yawn, fanning his face with a single hand and practically sneered, "Are you even _trying, _Potter? Please tell me you aren't—_no one, _not even _you, _can be this bad at Wizarding Chess."

With a scowl, Harry corrected, "It's Harry, Malfoy. And bugger off."

Draco's expression changed, subtly at first and then more apparent, his eyes lighting with an idea. "What do you say we add a twist, then? Every piece you knock off is a question answered—you know, in the name of _camaraderie_."

Harry swallowed—his suggestion was perfect, really, considering what Mr. Muller wanted Harry to do. Still, he was hesitant, very aware that this was Draco and quite possibly some sort of trick. He wouldn't be suggesting it if there wasn't something he wanted to gain.

"What sort of question?"

"Any sort."

"_Any _sort?" Harry repeated, emphasizing the first word.

Draco nodded.

He thought for a moment.

"How will I know if you're being honest?"

Draco gave a casual, one-shouldered shrug, his mouth twisting into a smirk.

"Come now, _Harry, _what question of yours, exactly, could be so _fantastically enlightening _that I'd need to lie to answer?"

The way he said his given name—it was taunting, patronizing, but different, and Harry suppressed a slight smile, half-ass glaring instead. "Oh, come off it, Malfoy. You know very well what I'll want to know."

"I do," he agreed, smirking again. "But who says you'll even have a chance to ask?"

"I captured.. one of your pawns," Harry argued feebily.

Both of Draco's eyebrows darted up and he gave Harry a cool smile, and with a dismissive wave of his hand, withdrew his wand to vanish the game, saying, "Brilliant point—how _could _I forget? Just forget it, then, it's rubbish, anyway."

Harry swallowed and said, abruptly, making a snap-decision, "Fine. We'll do it. But you've got to be honest, yeah?"

"Same goes to you," he countered, holding Harry's eyes steadfast with his own. Instead of vanishing it, he set the board with a wave of his wand, his eyes flicking away for but a moment before returning to Harry's. "You have my _word—_I'll be as honest as can be."

Harry chortled.

"As what can be? You? Because that's what I'm worried about."

Ignoring him, Draco said, "I'll even let you have first turn."

"What a gentleman," Harry muttered, rolling his eyes.

Harry had just finished his third turn when he saw it—his pawn was directly in the path of Draco's bishop and he frowned, his eyes flicking up to meet Draco's. Draco was smirking, the expression almost predatory, and Harry sighed. Until that point he had actually been doing rather well—he had already blocked one of Draco's attempts to capture a pawn by cornering his piece with a rook.

"Ah," Draco said, one of his pawns knocking Harry's over the head and dragging it off the side of the board with little effort. He looked up at Harry. "Here goes—I'll even give you an easy one—what are your nightmares about? And _in detail."_

That was an easy one?

Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

He shook his head.

"That wasn't part of the agreement, Malfoy. We never agreed that our answers couldn't be one worded."

Draco gave him an amused look.

"Backing out so soon? Shame. I would have thought that Gryffindor bravery stronger than that."

Harry's eyes darkened and he glared at Draco, arguing, "I'm not backing out of anything.. you just can't add rules to this when ever it suits you."

"Says who?" asked Draco, smirking.

"I do."

Draco's smirk widened.

"That sounds an awfully lot like a rule, Potter."

Harry's glare intensified and he sighed, "You're bloody impossible."

Draco waved his hand dismissively and said, "Stop deflecting the question; answer or you forfeit."

Harry thought for a moment before replying, "Fine. I forfeit."

Draco almost looked pleased.

"Fine. You'll be doing my Muggle Studies homework, then."

Harry made a face, demanding, "What? Says who?"

"I do," replied Draco simply.

Harry shook his head and gave Draco an incredulous look.

"We never agreed to that, either, Malfoy—stop trying to make things up. That's not very sportsman-like."

"Neither is forfeiting within the first turn. Really, Potter—you defeat V-Voldemort and 'save' the entire Wizarding World, but you can't even—"

"Fine," Harry huffed, interrupting. "_Fine_—I'll answer the bloody question, if only to get you to shut up."

Again, Draco looked pleased, and Harry wanted very much to wipe the look from his face.

"That's better."

"You heard my condition," Harry warned.

Draco simply smirked.

"They're usually about the final battle," he said finally, staring very hard at the edge of the chess-board. There was the slightest scuff mark along each corner, its only sign of regular use, and he was trying very hard not to see anything other than what he was looking at. "I don't get why you're so bloody curious, really—shouldn't be that surprising—"

"You're deflecting—"

"Just give me a minute, yeah?" Harry snapped, bringing his eyes up to Draco's with a light flush. "I'm working on it."

"You're as slow as a Hufflepuff—"

"—and you're as annoying as a bouncing little ferret, so belt it, yeah?"

Draco glowered but remained quiet.

"Thank you. Bloody hell. As I was _trying _to say—my nightmares are usually about the final battle." He paused, unsure of why he was being honest but, again, compelled to be so regardless. He suddenly felt very exposed, vulnerable, and his voice grew softer as he spoke, his eyes returning to the chess board. "They almost always take place where it happened—that damned sunflower field.. he makes me hear their screams." His voice cracked pathetically and yet he pressed on. "Over and over and over, and I can feel every bit of pain with it—it's like the unforgivable but worse, a thousand times worse, and I'm absolutely powerless to stop it." He glanced at Draco, not quite meeting his eyes. "Happy?"

"Hardly. You're hardly very original, Potter—here I was, hoping for some grand tale of—"

"War isn't grand, Malfoy," Harry interrupted in a flash of irritation. He had opened up to Draco—Merlin knew why—and there Draco was, trying to pour salt into an open wound. He really didn't know what else he expected. "It's dark and it's devastating and it _hurts _and even if you win, you lose_. _You lose pieces of yourself and people you loved..." Harry paused, thinking of Draco's parents, and added, "I would have thought you would know that by now."

Draco stiffened a bit and cleared his throat.

"Yes. Well. Moving on."

Harry nearly smiled and glanced back down at the chess board.

"Right."

Minutes passed until finally, one of Harry's pawns captured one of Draco's. He was unable to suppress the look of triumph from blanketing his face, barely watching as his piece beat its opponent into a pile of near-rubble, perhaps more viciously than even Draco's had.

"Show me whether or not you have the Dark Mark."

Draco's face remained expressionless and, voice even, he replied, "That's not a question, Potter. That's a command."

"Fine," Harry sighed, humoring him, "Do you have the Dark Mark? And you have to show me."

"Still a command."

"_You_ added stipulations—" Harry pointed out, "—are we _really _going to go through this song and dance again, Malfoy?"

There was a long moment during which Draco simply stared at Harry, his gray eyes surveying him, taking him in, and Harry felt himself tense under the scrutiny. Finally, Draco said, almost conversationally—as if they were talking about the weather—"M'spose not."

He shifted to roll up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing smooth, pale skin.

"Really, I'm surprised you didn't notice the other night," he continued. Harry barely heard him, his eyes catching on the familiar mark, its ink a startling contrast—his eyes traced its design before flicking toward the fire, darkening despite the glowing embers reflected.

"That's enough," he said stiffly. Suddenly he felt even more exposed than before. What did he think he was doing? What did Mr. Muller think he was doing? The man had admitted to testifying at Lucius' trial—he _knew _Draco's father was a Death Eater. Did he really think the apple fell so far from the tree? Harry knew he shouldn't be surprised. He had been there last year, on the Astronomy tower—he had seen Draco with other Death Eaters, heard of his plan and its slight success firsthand. A part of him had always known what Draco was but it hadn't seemed real until then.

"What's with the sour face, Potter? You _did _ask, and speaking of things that shouldn't be surprising—"

Harry's eyes swept back to Draco and he almost demanded, "Why'd you get it?"

"That's another question," Draco pointed out. He was unbelievably calm, considering the conversation, and Harry thought it rather unnerving. He felt torn between continuing the game and telling Draco where, precisely, he could shove his questions and his attitude—with a flash, Harry remembered his conversation with Mr. Muller about forgiveness and innocence. Harry pursed his lips together and huffed, motioning back to the board.

"Fine. Your turn."

Moments passed before Draco's rook trampled another of Harry's pawns.

"What do your voices say?" he asked, his eyes meeting Harry's.

Harry hesitated.

"How do you know I hear voices?"

Draco cocked his head slightly to the side, his expression slightly incredulous.

"You're schizophrenic, Potter."

Harry looked away, his face flushing, and argued, "..I could just have delusions."

Draco gave him a bored look, his eyes drilling into the side of Harry's face. Harry's flush darkened and he shifted uncomfortably where he sat. His voice was soft, broken. "Fine. Okay. I hear voices."

"I didn't ask for an admission. I asked for details."

Harry's good mood was slipping away more and more by the moment.

"Why are you so bloody curious about what goes on in my mind, yeah?"

"Careful, Potter, your head is swelling," Draco drawled.

"Would you just shut up?" Harry snapped.

"You're the one that has to fight me every question. You should know by now that you're not going to win."

Harry glared.

"Just.. shove it. Merlin's beard."

"Merlin's beard?" Draco laughed, shaking his head. "_Who _says that?"

His laugh was lighter than usual, smooth, and while it was still at Harry's expense, Harry thought there was something different about it. Harry gave him a slight, lop-sided grin and muttered, "I do! Now.. bloody hell. What was the question again? Wait—don't answer that."

His smile vanished and he looked back down at the chess board. If he wanted Draco's honesty on his next question, he supposed he needed to be honest on this one. Besides, it wasn't as if Draco didn't already know.

"Mostly what I told you earlier.. that I'm pathetic—I'm a coward," Harry replied quietly.

"And you believe it?"

"Don't you?" he countered, eyes flicking up.

Draco's expression was unreadable. His voice was soft, almost hesitant, and Harry had to strain to hear his reply.

"At the risk of inflating your already bulbous head, no. I don't. Not the coward part, anyway. You defeated Voldemort—you sacrificed _everything _for people you didn't even know. How does that make you a coward, Harry?"

Harry stared. Draco had just given him an unbelievable amount of information to wade through and in so few words—Draco was a Death Eater, or rather, he had the mark. Harry doubted Professor McGonagall would let a known Death Eater be his roommate, and yet, the latter was undeniable. It was a fact—he had seen it himself. But there Draco was, practically praising him for defeating Voldemort and (in more words) commending Harry for being brave. He swallowed, barely managing, "I.. err—what? Did you just call me Harry, Malfoy?"

"I'm not repeating myself," Draco sniffed, shifting where he sat. He uncrossed his legs and chose to lounge against the coffee table instead, his shoulders pressed against the wood and his legs pointed toward the fire. "And don't get used to it."

"Too late," Harry said, unable to stop his face from erupting into a grin.

"Bloody Gryffindor," Draco sneered. "Salazar help me, if you start crying again—"

"Relax, Malfoy," Harry interrupted, still grinning. "I'm not some lovesick, swooning fangirl."

"I'm so relieved," he said delicately.

Harry snorted.

"I can tell."

Draco said nothing and they continued to play in silence until Draco captured another of Harry's pieces. He regarded Harry with a slightly curious expression and asked, "Do you remember trying to throw yourself from that window?"

It felt as if Draco were going backwards with his questions—this seemed so less personal than the last, less intrusive, and Harry wondered if he were trying to guide them back to familiar territory.

"No," he replied, the answer coming more quickly than the others had. "I don't."

Draco simply nodded and looked back down at the board. He didn't press Harry for more information and Harry let a moment or two pass before he made his move, confusion knotting in his stomach. He narrowly avoided another one of Draco's pieces, somehow—perhaps by blind luck—managing to capture another of his pawn's in the process. He chose his words carefully this time, certain that this was the question he wanted to ask. Really, he already knew the answer. He had known it all along—he remembered that night clearly, the night in which Dumbledore died. He had been so focused on what Draco had been sent to do, on what had happened, that he had forgotten about the conversation itself. Draco, like everyone else, had a heart. It beat hard in his chest, rushing blood into his veins and love into the ties that bound most closely—family. And yet, Harry felt compelled to ask. He needed to know—he needed to hear it from Draco himself, voluntarily, if only to prove that his ears hadn't betrayed him that night because of the thick blanket of Dumbledore's enchantment.

"Why did you worship Voldemort?"

Draco stiffened.

"I had two choices," he said quietly, choosing his words carefully. His eyes deliberately met Harry's, hard and challenging. "I chose a life of servitude over a messy death—is that what you wanted to hear—that I chose the coward's way out?"

Harry surveyed him for a moment and Draco continued, almost smirking, "What—did you expect me to say that I was under the imperious curse or some such rubbish?"

"I don't know what I expected," Harry lied.

Draco scoffed and lightly chided, "Honesty, Potter."

Harry absently rubbed his arm, cringing as his fingers pressed the fabric of his robes against the deep gash Draco had caused. Draco's eyes moved to his arm and lingered there—he appeared to be in thought, and desperate to avoid that conversation, Harry confessed, "I—I was there—on the Astronomy tower.. when you were supposed to—to kill Dumbledore. He had cursed me—I was immobile, unable to do anything, but.. I could see—hear—everything."

Draco's eyes were on his again in an instant, his gaze unreadable.

Harry pressed on.

"You said—well, you said that Voldemort threatened your family?"

It was meant to be a statement, not a question, and Harry could see the muscle working in Draco's jaw, the movement intensified by the shadows the fire cast against his skin. A long, tense moment passed and Harry almost wondered if Draco was going to curse him—but then the thought passed and Draco looked away.

"It's your turn," he said quietly.

Harry wanted to press him for a better answer but instead of saying what he really wanted to, he shook his head and said, just as quietly, "No—it's yours. I asked last."

Draco swiftly moved one of his bishops—right into the path of Harry's rook. He seemed to realize his mistake as soon as the piece slid across the board, his eyes lingering on it as Harry made his own move. Naturally, he captured Draco's bishop—he felt a bit guilty, though, and quietly offered, "We can just play now."

Draco shook his head but his eyes didn't lift from the board.

"Ask your question," he said flatly.

Harry hesitated.

"Are you sure?"

Draco said nothing and, perhaps more hesitantly, Harry asked, "What happened to your mother?"

Finally, Draco's eyes met his. His gaze was hard, dark, and his lips were pressed into a thin line.

"That's none of you concern."

Harry caught his lip between his teeth again before saying, "I—I'm sorry. You said _any _question, Malfoy—and you promised to be honest—I just.." He shook his head, backtracking. "Nevermind that. I'm sorry—that was insensitive."

"You wouldn't understand," Draco replied stiffly, moving from the floor in a single, languid movement. He looked down at the chess board and waved his wand at it, vanishing it back in his chest. "This game's over."

Harry hurried to his feet. There was a change in Draco—he seemed tense, stiff, and his anger was apparent in his body language. He was guarded again and Harry felt his heart reach out to him—he was genuinely apologetic and felt quite stupid for asking the question in the first place. Considering Draco's reaction to his last question—he should have known better.

"Malfoy—don't be like that, it was just a_ question—_"

"Don't be like _what, _Potter?" Draco demanded, his voice hard. "You have no bloody right to tell me what to feel—you, of all people—you're so _fucking _self-righteous, aren't you? You—"

"I'm what?" Harry demanded, his eyes flashing. His regret passed, the potion's effects apparently fading as anger quickly washed over him, eager to meet Draco's. "You—you fucking arsehole! You've made fun of me for _years _because of my parents, and all I do is ask you a bloody question—a _single bloody question—_and you accuse _me _of being self-righteous?"

Draco laughed but, unlike before, the sound was cold and cruel. Harry pressed his lips together and glared.

"You think you have it _so _bad_,_" sneered Draco. "Poor little Potter—an orphan from the age of one—well guess what, Potter? There are worse things than being an orphan. At least you didn't _know _your mum! She died when you were _one _and you're _lucky. _You're fucking _lucky _because you _can't _miss her."

"I can't miss her?" Harry practically yelled, his hands turning to fists at his sides. "She was my mum! Of course I fucking miss her! Who are _you _to tell me what I can and can't feel? You always have to be _so much fucking better _than _everyone _else!"

"Look who's talking," Draco sneered, his voice dangerously low. He edged closer to Harry, his eyes hard. "You're such a bloody hypocrite, Potter."

"I'm a hypocrite?" That was rich! Harry''s entire body tensed at Draco's close proximity and he said two words between clenched teeth: "Fuck. You."

Harry could almost feel the anger radiating off of Draco and, all at once, the reality of their argument came crashing down upon him. They were arguing because Draco missed his mother—suddenly his anger felt rather absurd and vanished almost as quickly as it had came. His gaze softened and before he could properly take stock in his actions—before Draco could even reply—Harry stepped forward and closed the distance between them by wrapping Draco in a tight hug.


	16. Chapter 15

**A/N: ** Okay. So, it seems that I go into spurts with the length of these chapters—and for that I eternally apologize. I posted a different version of this chapter early this morning (October 15th), but after posting it, I decided I hated it. So. Ignore anything that isn't this. Yes? If you have no idea what I'm talking about or telling you to ignore—well, then, just skip on down.

I actually really want to add more to this chapter, but I need sleep and I work early tonight, so I'm unable to do so right now. I thought replacing its old version was more important and so, yeah, this is the result.

I fully intend on updating Wednesday morning again, simply because this chapter is so short. Love me, yes?

Flawless Beauti asked a few questions I thought you all might like to hear the answer to—provided I can avoid writing chapters less than 2,000 words (like this one), and manage to accelerate the plot some, this story will probably be 30 or so chapters long. Maybe. Probably more like 40. Mm. Again, maybe. That's clearly a _really _rough guesstimate, especially considering this story seems to have a mind of its own and keeps pulling me off plot, making it increasingly difficult to rejoin my previous course. Still. It's a guesstimate nonetheless.

As for why I chose schizophrenia—well, I can only give a really vague answer, lest I give too much away. I'm a Psychology major and it's a mental illness that fascinates me, no doubt in part because of my mother. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia just before I was born—I'm taking some known liberties with the mental illness in this story, though. It's my creative right and all of that rubbish. If you'd like to know more about schizophrenia in the _real _world, not my AU-messed-up-Drarry-world, then please, I invite you to check out NMHA's website (it ends with org, not com).

Any more questions? PLEASE, ask away! It helps my writer's block, promise!

And, as always, _please, _please, _**please **_**review!**

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. The song As Long as It Takes is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

&**.Chapter 15**

X

_I was watching when you lost direction—  
and I saw you when the headlights died..  
you were standing at the edge of a train wreck,  
twisted up inside._

/ / As Long as It Takes by The Spill Canvas.

X

There is one thing that must be set straight in order to proceed—Harry had never imagined hugging Draco. That being said, hugging him was a considerably different experience than he would have thought. If Harry _had _spent any time whatsoever imagining what it would be like to hug him, he imagined he would have thought it uncomfortable, Draco's body pressed against him in all of the wrong ways, all sharp edges and protruding bones—but it wasn't like that at all. Draco was taller than him, noticeably so, and if Harry were to turn, just slightly, his face would be aligned with the crook of his neck, his body melding against Draco's in a way that was impossible with Ron. He and Ron just didn't _fit _like this, and Draco's body was considerably more narrow than Hermione's, lithe and almost delicate. All around, it was a new experience—and not an entirely unpleasant one at that—or, rather, not an entirely unpleasant one for _Harry. _The instant his arms wrapped around Draco and pulled their bodies flush, Harry was aware of how unbelievably tense the other was. He felt very much like a tightly-wound coil in his arms, stiff and ready to snap, and Harry imagined the only reason he hadn't been cursed was that he had actually managed to _surprise _him. Yes, imagine that—Harry had managed to surprise _him_, Draco Malfoy.

The shock didn't last for long, however, and mere moments passed before Draco said, between gritted teeth, "Remove yourself at _once, _Potter—" a slight pause in which Harry didn't immediately comply, and then he added, voice low, "—before I am forced to do it for you."

Harry let the hug linger for but a moment longer before pulling away, able to feel the warmth of Draco's body even as cool air took its place.

As a preventive measure, Draco took a quick step back and away from Harry. His expression was twisted, eyes dark, and Harry could see traces of surprise written across his brow—he smiled slightly, amused, and folded his arms in front of his chest.

"What was the meaning of that?" Draco demanded, unable to think of anything better or more witty to say.

Harry shrugged.

"You looked like you needed a hug," he replied lightly.

Draco opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, his eyes searching Harry's face. Finally, the words slid from his tongue and toward Harry, their tone as angry as before.

"I did _not _and never _will _need a _hug _from _you, _Potter."

Harry pursed his lips together to suppress a smile. Every bit of anger he had possessed just moments before had vanished—a strange, silly sort of happiness had overcome it, and Harry sensed that Draco found his mood more infuriating than anything else he had just said or done.

"I _highly _suggest keeping such urges to yourself," Draco continued, his hands brushing across the length of his chest to smooth his shirt, "unless you fancy two bloody stumps."

Harry was unable to suppress his amusement, then, and actually laughed—Draco wrinkled his nose, partially in disgust, and partially because of the irony of what he had just said.

"I swear," Draco sniffed, his expression softening a bit, turning away from anger and into its usual arrogant mask, "you have the emotional consistency of a ogre."

"Better emotional consistency than personal hygiene," Harry quipped, grinning.

Both of Draco's eyebrows raised, pinching together at the center, and he shook his head.

"You're giving yourself far too much credit."

He was surveying Harry carefully, unsure of what to make out of his sudden mood swings—he wanted very much to continue to yell at Harry and shower him with an array of rather creative insults (creative in Draco's mind, anyway), but he strongly suspected that such words wouldn't have the desired effect. Harry seemed beyond arguing right then and, without a bit of a fight, insulting him was hardly as satisfying or worth-while. So instead, Draco simply studied him with a quiet sort of curiosity, his hands stilling at his sides and his head tilting-ever-so-slightly.

Harry's smile softened at the way Draco was looking at him and, quietly, he said, "It's okay to miss her, you know."

Draco visibly stiffened, straightening again, and set his jaw.

He was a tightly-wound coil again, stiff and ready to snap, and Harry's own body tensed in reply.

"What a relief," Draco sneered, "I can finally _feel, _knowing that Saint Potter has validated my emotions."

His tone was hard, clipped, and Harry sighed.

"I'm not going to fight you on this, Malfoy," Harry said quietly, shifting a bit. "I just—well, it seems so pointless. You're not the only one that's lost someone—and I'm not talking about my parents. Just.." he hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching as he forced himself to meet Draco's eyes, "well, if you need to talk sometime—I'm here. I'm absolute rubbish with words, but I can listen."

Draco scoffed, his mouth pulling into a sneer.

"Tell me, Potter, what would _ever _give you the idea that I would confide in the likes of _you?"_

Harry shrugged. The words had come on their own accord and while the offer certainly stood, Harry hadn't lied. He was absolutely rubbish at words. He was rubbish at listening, really, too—anything emotional, really. He supposed he was a stereotypical man in that aspect (and he was basing said stereotypes on the few glimpses of television he had managed when young, and the way his relationship was with Ron and other Gryffindor boys). He would much rather bottle his emotions up and deal with his own hell in private than broadcast it to others—but, begrudgingly, he could admit that talking _had _helped, on occasion.

"It's just an offer," he replied finally, "nothing more, nothing less."

He felt a bit foolish at suggesting it, really, but Harry imagined part of its purpose was repayment. He wanted to repay Draco, even a bit, for the strange sort of understanding and kindness he had shown earlier that morning.

Draco shook his head and stepped forward, once, and then again so that they were breaths apart. His eyes were a hard gray—liquid, molten silver—and his jaw was set, his mouth drawn into a thin line. Harry straightened a bit and tried to meet Draco's challenging look with an even gaze of his own. He swallowed hard despite himself and when Draco spoke, his voice was dangerously low, clearly threatening.

"I'm _not _and never _will be _a charity case." He held Harry's eyes for a deliberate moment in silence before continuing. "Have I made myself clear, _Potter?"_

He didn't need saving and he most _certainly _didn't need Saint Potter coming to his rescue. What ever he felt or, perhaps more appropriately, tried _not _to feel—well that was his concern, not Harry's.

Harry shrugged, managing to look somewhat dismissive despite the strain in his shoulders.

"Crystal," Harry replied.

Their eyes remained locked, however, and Harry absently realized that Draco's eyes weren't gray at all. Not really—they were a pale, silver-blue with flecks of green and dark gray around his pupils. Harry swallowed again and, finally, averted his eyes. This clearly pleased Draco as he was stepping away moments later, retreating to the sanctity of their bathroom without another word. Its door shut softly behind him and Harry stared at it for a long moment before he, too, stirred, practically collapsing onto his bed. Upon Draco's insistence, Harry had magicked the bathroom clean before his meeting with Mr. Muller, even repairing the mirror as if that would fix his reflection. His forehead twitched at he thought and he stared at his canopy, his hands folded haphazardly across his stomach and legs dangling over the bed's edge, feet just brushing the floor.

Harry tried to focus on nothing but tracing the shadows with his eyes—soon after, the shadows increased and his eyes slipped shut.

There was a strong scent of honey and cinnamon and the shadows lightened, cradling Harry gently, pulling him down into their depths. He felt as if he were drowning, his mouth open and feebly attempting to suck in air but unable to—his lungs refused to work and the shadows were a deep cerulean blue, shifting and shimmering into a dark turquoise. Water—he was encased in water, not shadows, and at that realization, Harry's lungs filled. The water filled his open mouth and slid down his throat, choking and suffocating him at the same time. He panicked and started to thrash, arms and legs flailing around him, unknowingly propelling him to the surface. He pushed up, toward a sunlit blue, and let out a gasping, choking cough as he fell upwards and to the ground.

It was green, then, not blue.

His entire world shifted, flipping upside down, and then he was laying on dark grass, staring upwards at a cerulean-blue sky. There were bubbles and waves and Harry struggled into a sitting position—carefully, he reached up, his fingers lightly skimming the surface of the water.

The lake above him dropped suddenly, showering him with its weight, and it wasn't at all like Harry had expected.

His body melded against it, then, in a way previously impossible—he could breathe easily and there was a lingering warmth, two arms cradling him from behind, lithe and delicate.


	17. Chapter 16

**A/N: ** First things are first—I really suggest going back to chapter 15 to ensure that you've read the right version, else this may not make sense. Yes. That. It should be relatively easy to tell by the author's note (if anyone actually reads those, that is). Haha. (:

I really hope everyone likes this chapter. I'm quite fond of it and while I'm a bit paranoid that there's _slight _OOCness, I think it's slight enough that no one will come chasing after me with pitchforks. Maybe. Hopefully. Mm, yeah.

My next update should be Monday morning, as usual, and as always, _**please review!**_

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. The song Homesick is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

&**.Chapter 16**

X

_Now we're finally home, it feels good not to be alone—  
just remember you must tend to it for it to really grow;  
a garden of broken friendships reminds you you survive..  
click your heels three times_

_and pray that you will make it out alive._

/ / Homesick by The Spill Canvas.

X

Her heart was in her throat, beating hard—frantic—and she uncharacteristically cursed, the stairway's grinding drowning out her words. Moving to the bottom of the staircase, she half-thought about cursing his back. It would be so simple—a single word and a flash of bright red and then Ron would be suspended, frozen in mid-air for but a moment before falling to the floor—but his heart was in the right place, no matter how misguided his actions were, and she waited impatiently for the stairway to rejoin its base instead. As soon as it locked into place, Hermione rushed down the corridor, hurrying past a handful of other students and deliberately ignoring the portraits' disapproving looks and remarks of, "No running in the corridor's!" or "The weekend isn't going anywhere, young lass—I suggest you slow, lest Gryffindor lose points!"

She kept telling herself that Ron would never actually _curse _Harry, not like he tried to curse Malfoy, but there was something in her gut that propelled her forward.

Hermione hadn't _intended _to tell Ron about Harry's spell of insanity from the day before—she had intended to keep it to herself with the condition that, should it happen again, she would notify McGonagall. Despite all of her common sense and knowledge of mental illness and its warning signs and whatnot, Hermione couldn't see Harry as a threat. She had felt threatened yesterday, yes, but she couldn't connect that feeling with her friend, with the boy who had struggled against darkness his entire life and had succeeded in lighting the world. Harry's behavior had flustered her more than even she knew, however, because one moment she was trying to convince Ron that he was still Harry, still their friend, and that distancing him would be of no help (for him _or _them), and then she slipped and said something she shouldn't. Ron had pressed her for details until she had broken, until her fear and anger and disbelief had spouted from her mouth and eyes, hot and sad and _angry, _so angry—Ron's anger responded to hers and then he was gone. She chased after him but the stairway—that bloody stairway—her thoughts were a rush, darting from one thing to another, and Hermione darted down another corridor.

X

Harry jerked awake, his eyes blearily staring up at the canopy above him. He wondered about its color and why it was red, not blue, and thought of a bloodied lake pressing in on him. His heart twisted at the thought, shuddering and quickening, and then there was a loud knocking against their portrait. He could hear someone yell and his senses came rushing back to him with the realization that he was awake, not dreaming, and no lake could hurt him—or hold him, for that matter. The thought was fleeting and he hurried from his bed and to the portrait, quickly pulling it open. Surprise flashed across his sleep-ridden face at the sight that greeted him: Ron stood in front of him, his hands twisted into fists at his sides, his face flushed and eyes wild. He had been trying to bargain with the portrait, a knight that clearly recognized him, but apparently the password had been changed after Draco took his place as Harry's keeper—his anger swelled when Harry opened it from the inside, and he quickly stepped into his room, the portrait swinging shut behind him.

"'swrong?" Harry asked, taking his glasses off to rub at his eyes.

"You bloody well _know _what's wrong," Ron replied loudly, searching Harry's face.

Shoving his glasses back onto his face, Harry's brow pinched together at its center.

"What are you talking about?"

"Hermione—she _told _me, Harry."

Ron stared at him expectantly, as if waiting for a confession, an admission of sorts, and Harry shook his head, his mind thick with grogginess and confusion. He felt mildly disoriented and he wondered if his realization had been a trick—maybe he was still sleeping after all.

"Told you what?"

Ron smiled but it wasn't a nice smile. It was twisted, laced with disbelief and anger, and he moved closer to Harry. Harry could feel the anger radiating off of him—he could practically taste it, bitter and sweet at the same time, and he took a quick, apprehensive step back, his heart twisting in his chest again. Say this wasn't a dream and he _was _awake—he searched his memories for what Ron could be referring to.

"Everything," Ron replied.

Harry thought of the day before, when he had last seen Hermione. He thought of her distance—his distance, even—and that frightened, hesitant sort of look she had given him in the corridor before potion's class. He could feel something pulling him in, drawing him closer, but when he tried to focus on it, it disappeared and confusion was in its place.

He licked his lips.

"Wh-what are you talking about, Ron?"

Ron gave him a disgusted look, his upper lip drawn up, scrunched toward his nose, and said, "_Don't _play stupid. Just—how _could you, _Harry?" He paused and took another step forward. The movement lacked grace. It was a bit unbalanced, propelled only by anger, and Harry could see the heat in his eyes, hear it in his voice—he was almost yelling at Harry, his voice hard and loud. "She told me _everything—_how could you? How could you call her _that _and—and _bloody hell, _Harry—she's your friend!"

Harry could feel that knot in his stomach twitching, uncurling itself, his own anger reaching out to Ron's. He tried to suppress it, control it, but his voice was strained when he repeated, "What are you talking about?"

Ron visibly scoffed and repeated his own words, "_Don't _play stupid."

"I'm not—I really don't know what—"

"Bullocks," Ron interrupted_,_ his eyes flashing.

The tight, thin-band of control Harry had managed on his anger snapped then. He could feel it loosen, stretch up and into his lungs, wrapping itself around his heart and burying itself deep in his chest, squeezing hard and expanding and making him breathless—Harry's eyes darkened and his expression contorted into something cool but somehow angry, a silent, teasing fury taking place of his confusion.

Ron hesitated, aware of the change. His own expression softened and the Harry's mouth twitched in amusement.

His voices whispered and he repeated them aloud, quiet and taunting.

"What? Are you _jealous? _She smelled _delicious, _you know—I could almost _taste _her." Ron's face flushed a deep red and Harry pressed on, his mouth shifting into an easy smirk. Both eyebrows darted up for but a moment as he said, "I would have _liked _to, actually.." He cocked his head to the side. "That is, if that _traitor _hadn't intervened—tell me—have _you _tased her? Is she as delicious as I imagine?"

Ron's own control snapped and he was on Harry within an instant. He shoved him hard, back toward the bed, and Harry laughed, quickly regaining his balance. He gave Ron an almost challenging look—and then everything happened so quickly. Everything was a rush of movement. Harry was only vaguely aware of the bathroom door opening, Draco emerging to lean casually against its door frame. He had heard the ruckus and, after trying fruitlessly to convince himself that he was _not _curious, had decided to investigate. Just as his shoulder connected with the door frame and his eyes started to dance across the scene, Ron's hand was reeling back much like Harry's had just days before—and then it was propelled forward, turned into a fist, and Harry tried sidestepping it. Ron hit his shoulder hard, missing his intended target—Harry's face—and then the portrait was opening on its own accord. Hermione shoved her Head Girl badge back into her robes and rushed forward, grabbing Ron's arm as it reeled back once more.

"Ron! Harry!" she yelled, clearly distressed, her own anger flashing in her eyes.

Harry ignored her and shoved Ron back into her.

Draco narrowed his eyes. He couldn't see Harry's face, but his body language was obvious, and he could identify the difference in his reply, the cold darkness twisted into his words, and he straightened against the door frame.

"Here's your chance," Harry taunted loudly, almost laughing as Hermione tried to restrain Ron. He paused and his eyes met hers for a single instant as he added, "Although, on second thought, I doubt she's as delicious as I implied—she _is _a mudblood, after all."

Hurt flashed across Hermione's face and she tightened her hold on Ron as he started to twist from her grasp. He was blinded by white hot anger and Harry laughed at him. It wasn't at all a pleasant sound—Hermione shivered, its familiarity unnerving—but before Harry could move closer, Draco had stepped forward and wrapped a hand firmly around his forearm, squeezing slightly, his wand in his other hand. Pain surged through Harry's arm and he startled, looking to Draco. Almost instantaneously, Harry's eyes lightened, his expression softening, laced with pain instead of anger. The slice across his forearm _burned _and Harry gasped, the noise choked and confused, and tried jerking his arm away from Draco's grasp. Draco's touch was tight and insistent, however, and he only loosened his hold on Harry's arm when he saw the brightness returning to his eyes. His grip softened but remained, and the pain in Harry's arm started to subside. He searched Draco's face for but a moment before turning to the two in front of him. His eyes flickered from Ron to Hermione and then back, searching his face—why did he look so angry?

His confusion and hesitance was etched in lines across his forehead and Harry's voice was soft when he asked, "Wh—what's going on?"

It was Ron who laughed then, the sound erupting from his throat unwanted, bitter and choked, and Hermione's hands tightened around either of his arms. She edged closer to him, her body brushing the length of his, and peered around him to look at Harry and Draco. Her eyes were focused on where they were touching, silently tracing the curve of Draco's hand against his arm, and she didn't quite meet Harry's eyes when she looked up.

"You—" she hesitated and Harry thought her eyes were sad, drowning, unfocused and breaking. Her voice mirrored her eyes, cracking slightly when she continued with, "I—I wish we could help, Harry. I wish _we _could help instead of _him _but we can't and I—" she stopped again, her eyes moving to peer up at the side of Ron's face. "I think we should go."

Harry thought Ron looked very much like Draco, then, a tightly wound coil, stiff and ready to snap. Remnants of anger were still apparent, his face slightly red, blotchy, but he had calmed considerably under Hermione's warmth. He was no longer struggling but there was a tightness to his stance.

"Not until he apologizes," Ron said through gritted teeth.

Before Harry could ask what for, Draco was speaking, his voice hard and challenging.

"I suggest listening to your _girlfriend, _Weasley, while you still can."

At one point Draco had evidently moved closer to Harry because, while his hand was still wrapped around his forearm, their arms were brushing, resting against one another's ever-so-slightly. Harry glanced at him as Draco cocked his head to the side, his mouth twisting into a cool smirk. He made a deliberate motion with his wand and Ron's expression darkened.

"This is _your _fault, isn't it?" Ron asked, voice low. "You're bloody _corrupting him, _aren't you, Malfoy? You're just like your father—a—"

Before Ron could even _think _about finishing the sentence, Draco's hand was raised, his wand just breaths away from Ron's chest. His arm was steady, eyes dark, and his mouth was set into a thin line. He, too, was a tightly wound coil, but his voice was quiet, almost conversational, as if he were simply mentioning the weather: "I _really _must insist you leave."

Ron very obviously wanted to object but Hermione gave his arm a sharp jerk and started pulling him toward the portrait hole, muttering gently, "Come on, Ron. We're leaving—n_ow._"

Very begrudgingly, he allowed himself to be led out of their room. He didn't even say another word—but his eyes were burning into Harry and Draco until the very moment the portrait swung shit behind them. The moment it closed, Draco lowered his wand, his hand releasing Harry's arm. Despite the burning it had caused, Harry missed the warmth—he stared at the portrait hole for a long moment, his thoughts spinning, rushing around him. He felt a piece of himself deflate, collapse into itself—he didn't know what had just happened, but he had the very distinct feeling that nothing would ever be the same. He swallowed hard, his eyes burning at the realization. Although Draco's touch had retracted, he was still standing just breaths away, and Harry tried blinking away the sensation behind his eyes as he turned to properly look at him. There was a question on the tip of his tongue, an answer Harry yearned for, but the moment his eyes met Draco's, he felt another piece of himself break. He was suddenly exhausted, overwhelmingly drained, and he sucked in a sort of gasping breath instead of uttering the words he so desperately wanted to: What happened?

There was a tightness to Draco's eyes and then his brow creased, just slightly, with something incomprehensible—before Harry could even _attempt _to guess at its meaning, Draco moved forward, his arms hesitantly wrapping around Harry. The hug was deliberately loose but the moment Draco touched him, Harry fell forward into the embrace, pressing himself against his chest, his eyes slipping shut on their own accord. The burning increased and hot tears spilled through his eyelashes—he let out another gasping breath and wrapped his own arms around Draco in reply, pulling them closer together.

Draco was still stiff—so bloody stiff—but the embrace felt less awkward than before, perhaps because it wasn't simply Harry hugging Draco—_they _were hugging each other.

Moments passed until Draco shifted awkwardly against Harry and Harry hesitantly, although willingly, pulled away. He didn't quite meet Draco's eyes, instead busying himself with cleaning his glasses against his shirt as his tears slowed. Once the choking knot in his throat had subsided some and the burning in his eyes had dulled, Harry shoved his glasses back on and spared Draco a curious look.

"What was that for?" he asked finally, trying to make the question sound more dismissive than it was. "I thought you would _never _need a _hug _from _me._"

Draco's face was smooth, expressionless, but his eyes were trained on Harry's as he gave a casual sort of shrug.

"I didn't. _You _needed one from _me—Harry._" There was a moment's pause and then his mouth was twisting into a familiar smirk as he said, deliberately, "And don't get used to it."

Harry almost laughed.

"Too late."

X

**A/N: **Out of curiosity, would any of you care to tell me what your favorite part of this story has been—or of its characters? I'd just really like to hear more thoughts on how it's progressing thus far! Thanks much! (:


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